Post by sakasakebariuk on Jan 2, 2012 11:37:31 GMT
It is early January, and the weekend of fishing started early on Sunday morning at the ‘it’s still dark’ time of 06.30. The weather was fantastic; the decision to go fishing was made at the spare of the moment as I lay in bed unable to close my eyes and drift back to sleep. After kissing my partner as I left the house, I put my gear in the boot of the car and headed to the River Axe for a day’s fishing.
I had thought that my previous visit to the river would have been my last for the season, and so I felt as if my life had been somewhat extended. As I parked the car and began tackling up, the view of the river from the stone bridge beneath me held an almost electric quality. Hell, I was so excited with this ‘bonus day’ of fishing that I could not wait to don my waders and get fishing.
In my short time fishing this river I have fallen both enthusiastically and enviously in love with it, and if anything, it has taken priority over all the other waters I fish. I like fishing there alone as it is only a small river where even a group of two or three over anglers can feel crowded in some places. I like to fish the river at a gentle pace, as of course, this type of small river fishing dictates.
The thing I love most about fishing small rivers, however, is the fact that you are fishing in solitude well in this chase you are occasionally interrupted by cows grazing and residing at the side of the river for a drink. The fish here are generally smaller, faultlessly finned, but very wary.
It is 07:30 and the winter sun is still yet to rise, but the air has a tender warmth about it that allows shirt sleeves to be rolled up comfortably. After a ten minute walk to my normal starting spot (a small pool no more than 15 metres long with small, but confident, white riffles creating its head and tail) I find myself once again overwhelmed by the magnificence of this place. An innumerable array of sparkling light shafts glisten brightly as the morning’s sun bounces off the countless dew droplets which have formed overnight on the grass, leaves and trees.
All but the last of the trees has turned a deep brown and the multitude of thick trees are all signalling the arrival of winter with splashes of golden yellows, browns, oranges and reds. The river, passing below a low ceilinged corridor of trees, offers shade and cover to a few rising trout and grayling that are rudely interrupted now and then by parachuting leaves, gently floating to the water’s surface.
I am using my recently purchased Tenkara Ebisu 12ft rod. Crouched low, and slowly working my way up to the head of the pool, I pick up three small grayling it quick succession, that quite fancy a lunch of ‘Size #16 Red Klinkhamer. All were wild, small, but fin perfect, and muscular. I pleasantly surprised how the Tenkara rod absorbed each lunge, as they wrestled to release themselves. All three fish were taken from the head of the pool.
Fishing my way through the pools banked corridors of trees, knee high in wild stream water, the trees (all of which have now reverted to their winter wardrobes) paint the fields and its river in rich golds, yellows, and olive browns.
At one point, as I stand mid-stream lazily changing my fly, I hear a frantic rustle in the undergrowth on the far bank. Instinctively my head shoots up and as I focus on the area of the disturbance, all falls silent. My eyes locked onto the source; a collection of small undergrowth containing an ominous shadow moving with ancient malevolence within their shady cover. Just as I started to fear that a monster with three heads might pounce from within and devour me, out pops the black, furry, weasel-like, and roguish face of a rather inquisitive mink (on reflection it could have been a large rat).
As the day’s morning drew out and turned into mid-afternoon, I had caught two dozen wild fish and covered more than two miles. I was tired, but carried on fishing, casting to a riffle at the head of a pool.
Hatches of sedges and midges, were all seen in abundance throughout the day, although the hugely opportunistic nature of these small wild fish needed no more than a Klinkhamer or CDC & Elk to spark an interest and a confident rise.
At the end of the day, and in the warm, early evening sun, I reflected about the fish, flies, tactics for the next season, and enjoying a stream chilled bottle of water in what seemed (and probably was) a very distant field in relation to where I had initially parked the car. In total I had caught more than two dozen glorious grayling, and was as happy as any fishermen can be after a tiresome, but very successful day for the start of 2012.
At dusk, I had been on the stream for nearly ten hours, and was seriously tired. So I started the two mile stroll back to the car, stopping now and again to either fish a section of stream that just screamed for one last cast, or to take a few seconds rest in the fading warmth of the winter day in January.
Kind Regards
SKUK
I had thought that my previous visit to the river would have been my last for the season, and so I felt as if my life had been somewhat extended. As I parked the car and began tackling up, the view of the river from the stone bridge beneath me held an almost electric quality. Hell, I was so excited with this ‘bonus day’ of fishing that I could not wait to don my waders and get fishing.
In my short time fishing this river I have fallen both enthusiastically and enviously in love with it, and if anything, it has taken priority over all the other waters I fish. I like fishing there alone as it is only a small river where even a group of two or three over anglers can feel crowded in some places. I like to fish the river at a gentle pace, as of course, this type of small river fishing dictates.
The thing I love most about fishing small rivers, however, is the fact that you are fishing in solitude well in this chase you are occasionally interrupted by cows grazing and residing at the side of the river for a drink. The fish here are generally smaller, faultlessly finned, but very wary.
It is 07:30 and the winter sun is still yet to rise, but the air has a tender warmth about it that allows shirt sleeves to be rolled up comfortably. After a ten minute walk to my normal starting spot (a small pool no more than 15 metres long with small, but confident, white riffles creating its head and tail) I find myself once again overwhelmed by the magnificence of this place. An innumerable array of sparkling light shafts glisten brightly as the morning’s sun bounces off the countless dew droplets which have formed overnight on the grass, leaves and trees.
All but the last of the trees has turned a deep brown and the multitude of thick trees are all signalling the arrival of winter with splashes of golden yellows, browns, oranges and reds. The river, passing below a low ceilinged corridor of trees, offers shade and cover to a few rising trout and grayling that are rudely interrupted now and then by parachuting leaves, gently floating to the water’s surface.
I am using my recently purchased Tenkara Ebisu 12ft rod. Crouched low, and slowly working my way up to the head of the pool, I pick up three small grayling it quick succession, that quite fancy a lunch of ‘Size #16 Red Klinkhamer. All were wild, small, but fin perfect, and muscular. I pleasantly surprised how the Tenkara rod absorbed each lunge, as they wrestled to release themselves. All three fish were taken from the head of the pool.
Fishing my way through the pools banked corridors of trees, knee high in wild stream water, the trees (all of which have now reverted to their winter wardrobes) paint the fields and its river in rich golds, yellows, and olive browns.
At one point, as I stand mid-stream lazily changing my fly, I hear a frantic rustle in the undergrowth on the far bank. Instinctively my head shoots up and as I focus on the area of the disturbance, all falls silent. My eyes locked onto the source; a collection of small undergrowth containing an ominous shadow moving with ancient malevolence within their shady cover. Just as I started to fear that a monster with three heads might pounce from within and devour me, out pops the black, furry, weasel-like, and roguish face of a rather inquisitive mink (on reflection it could have been a large rat).
As the day’s morning drew out and turned into mid-afternoon, I had caught two dozen wild fish and covered more than two miles. I was tired, but carried on fishing, casting to a riffle at the head of a pool.
Hatches of sedges and midges, were all seen in abundance throughout the day, although the hugely opportunistic nature of these small wild fish needed no more than a Klinkhamer or CDC & Elk to spark an interest and a confident rise.
At the end of the day, and in the warm, early evening sun, I reflected about the fish, flies, tactics for the next season, and enjoying a stream chilled bottle of water in what seemed (and probably was) a very distant field in relation to where I had initially parked the car. In total I had caught more than two dozen glorious grayling, and was as happy as any fishermen can be after a tiresome, but very successful day for the start of 2012.
At dusk, I had been on the stream for nearly ten hours, and was seriously tired. So I started the two mile stroll back to the car, stopping now and again to either fish a section of stream that just screamed for one last cast, or to take a few seconds rest in the fading warmth of the winter day in January.
Kind Regards
SKUK
. I never thought about using dry flies at this time of the year but I might try some on my next excursion. There are hatches of midges and some other small flies but I never see any fish rising on the surface so I've always used nymphs. I've only caught one grayling on a tenkara rod but I'm determined to catch a lot more.