Good Omens

This month begins with a note or two of that quality quite often lacking from your finger pointing armchair angler: genuine optimism. First and foremost this is because great angling writing is about to get a much needed shot in the arm with the birth of "Fallon's Angler" later this month.

A fresh title that celebrates the best in original writing on the sport is long overdue, and with Chris Yates and Tom Fort heading the list of contributors it's wonderful to be part of the project. Why does it matter? Because in so much of the angling media only the technical, and often sponsored, writing seems to get a look in at present. I don't wish to rant here, but we need to support independent writing that is worthy of the sport's rich heritage (and yes, that actually means paying for it sometimes).

I live in hope though, as perhaps all anglers do at heart. Besides, it's difficult to feel dour when a little bonus summer time arrives and things seem to be improving. With recent commitments including a new part time job as a professional copywriter (sometimes I actually get paid to blog!), fishing time has been slightly limited. But there's always the prospect of sneaking off for some urban fly fishing while my girlfriend goes on her Saturday shift.

I've spoken before of the surprisingly awesome fishing town spots can produce and this time of year can be amongst the best, almost as if the fish know harder times are ahead. Weirdly, conditions were more like high summer for my latest jaunt: low, clear water and fish that seem like a piece of piss to catch if only you can avoid scaring them to death with your size fourteens (I'm not even joking about my feet).

Small beaded nymphs worked a treat once I'd got the hang of really gentle wading and making longer casts with a fine leader, but the real surprise was the dry fly sport. In several spots I'd had a mere bite or two in the shallow water, before the rest disappeared. But the really meaty little weirs and areas of rushing water were another story, with faster and more broken water. With rise forms picking up in the early afternoon I couldn't resist whacking on a nice Balloon Caddis. Not an enormous pattern on this occasion, but a size 14 (hook, not foot size) got some phenomenally juicy takes around boulders and bottlenecks of faster water. The best was a foot long beastie whose whole head and shoulders came out on the take, before a little wrestling bout involving my petrified nerves, pacy water and some ugly rocks:

So, even with time limited, quite an action packed three or so hours were enjoyed. Otherwise, more good omens were sighted on a trip to the city of Bath with my significant other, where I went and visited… a bath. A great big Roman bath to be clear. We had a fascinating time examining ancient relics, coins and even Latin curses, while I hope the watery deities pictured will bring me some angling luck in the testing, colder months ahead. Pictured are watery Celtic Goddess "Sulis Minerva" and a mysterious Neptune-like "King of the Deep". Bloody hell I must be getting desperate:


Despite the obligatory killjoy "No Fishing" signs, the Avon looked beautiful through the city, while I also found a rather dapper painting of a Georgian "Angling Party" at the Victoria Gallery to make my girlfriend yawn. Looking at their stylish attire and the fact that there's even an actual woman without facial hair fishing in the image, I can't help think that we've gone backwards these last 200 years. That's culture for you.

Lucky Days in May

Fortune and form, just like so much in angling, tend to work in cycles. You have periods that test you, and others that repay your faith. This week has simply been one of those when lady luck has not so much smiled on me, but bought me free beer and pizza before slipping a tenner in my back pocket.
In the case of Chew Valley Lake however, I'm tempted to say "about bloody time." Not sure what it is about the place, but previous visits have been a case of so near but so far. One previous experience had stuck in my head above all others, of watching one of the biggest pike I'd ever hooked spit out the fly before the net could be sunk. The valley still probably echoes with my swear words.
I'm not mad keen on the pike trials here, much preferring to fish when it's quieter. You can take your time a bit more, and be a little more civilised for one thing. And as well as my significant other, Paulina, I was in excellent company this time. The Angling Trust's Paul Sharman was my fishing partner for the day, while we also compared notes with the esteemed pike fly fisher David Wolsoncroft-Dodds.

Look at the grinning faces in countless Chew pictures and you might assume the place is a dead cert for big pike. Look at the sheer size of the place and the amount of fishing pressure however, and the task is far more challenging.
One thing I've learned from previous visits is to be single-minded. Sure, you can take trout tackle as well as pike flies, but you can't single-mindedly do both. With trout rising for a thick hatch of buzzers on our visit, I'm glad I only took a pike fly set up, because they could have proved an almighty distraction. Instead, we stuck to the task in hand relentlessly with large flies and in my case a nine weight set up. Some of Paul's creations were truly monstrous:

With sport tough, we fished really hard for just a handful of bites. It was Paul who had the greater number of takes and two scrappy fish in the net:

I, on the other hand, had just one moment of inspiration- but it was worth every drop of rain and fruitless cast endured. It had followed Paul's suggestion to move to a more distant area that proved critical. At the end of an umpteenth cast, I saw a large shape follow, which slammed my fly (a 3/0 Savage's Baitfish in roach colour) right at the last gasp in heart stopping fashion! It was a terrific fight, with fly line disappearing rapidly at first, before she gave several outrageous wallowing runs close to the net.

At 21 pounds 9oz, this was a fish to repay my faith- and banish my Chew jinx - all in the space of five or so nerve shredding minutes of action. In fact I was still grinning when the sun finally replaced the drizzle two hours later. We spent a fine afternoon drifting the lake and chewing the fat, the three of us enjoying some warmth and talk of travel and fishing.


As delighted as I was with my pike though, a mild start to May seemed an even more appropriate time for some further trout fishing. I'm not about to make myself the bane of the locals by naming the exact locations, suffice to say there are several terrific free river stretches among Devon's towns (Theo Pike's book "Trout In Dirty Places" has some excellent leads). How is this, for a little gateway to the stream, just behind suburbia?

No need for nymphs this time, just about everything was rising: sedge, olives and even some very early, classic mayflies. The trout were so up for it, I resorted to progressively larger flies. Rises were positive and gorgeous, wild fish just kept coming. Well, apart from this rather cute oddball; I've never seen such a stocky, squat looking wild brownie:

The best was yet to come too. I had spotted a larger fish by a boulder that simply refused to move for anything. I'd seen the devil on two previous strolls in fact, each time tormenting me. It was to be third time lucky for me though, and the answer was to change tactics. I landed a large dry sedge near his lair, before giving it a provocative twitch and suddenly, at last, he finally lashed out:

The story doesn't end there however. I had wandered just 50 yards beyond the boundary of a public park when I spotted something that left me speechless. The dog otter which swam right past my position was a great big creature. He went by quite unconcerned, diving briefly opposite me, before resurfacing downstream. Many a time I've heard talk of otters on Devon rivers, but never been face to face with one. It's a shame I couldn't steal a better picture of him, but the eagle eyed among you will make the otter out here:

A rare treat really- and while I understand concern for some coarse fisheries, I can't help feeling that these creatures belong in our native land. Nor do they seem to have a huge effect on wild trout in my experience, because I've found droppings and footprints on some really prolific trout streams.
All in all, I've had a wonderful spring, but an even greater satisfaction than my current lucky streak is the release of my book, Canal Fishing: A Practical Guide.

Thinking back over all the adventures, trips, research, phone calls, emails and anglers involved, it's wonderful to finally see the project realised in print. It was a tough call to compile a book with just about every species, method and canal fishery in the country- but the result is what I hope will be regarded as a really entertaining and comprehensive guide to canal fishing. It can be ordered now from all good angling book stockists, or you can order a signed first edition from my very own site (www.dgfishing.co.uk).

Dirty Towns & Wild Browns

The search for exciting, interesting fishing takes us to some wild, unspoiled places. It also takes us to some crusty, bizarre locations. I'm quickly coming to the conclusion that unlikely fishing is often good fishing. The trout in and around the Exe and Lowman in Tiverton are a prime example. Grubby surroundings, yes. But even the shadow of recent pollution doesn't seem to have killed a surprisingly rich environment. Visiting angling scribe Theo Pike has a particular interest in these urban gems, having taken an active role in restoring the River Wandle close to his own home in London. Visiting family in Devon, it seemed the perfect opportunity to have a crack at some similarly townie trout. It was nice not to be the only nutter walking about town with a fly rod anyway. Judging by a few kick samples, you could hardly call these urban waters infertile:

We found the trout highly receptive. The only bother they usually get here is an occasional misplaced clearance from the football pitches, or the odd rusty spinner or beer bottle. Appearances can be so deceptive though. Reminds me of some advise my dad once gave me- "never pick a fight with an ugly person..?." No, it was something about judging books by covers. And this particular book, is such a world away from its rather shoddy cover. Amidst the usual debris and a staggering four shopping trolleys and a drowning flat screen TV we picked our way through a series of curious little pools and runs. Theo opted for miniature sedge patterns in 16s to extract some lovely brown trout, looking every inch wild. Most were in the small but pretty stamp, although one or two really took us by surprise.

Are urban trout any different to those of more idyllic places? It seems that they are well used to the odd passer by, so perhaps spook less easily- or at least take less time to settle again after a misplaced cast. It was a week of urban fishing in fact, with some rudd, bleak, chub, a skimmer and even a lost tench on the Bridgwater stretch of canal.

All good fun then. Not the most peaceful fishing exactly, but there's always a curious excitement about catching fish from places where it doesn't look possible. I even managed to produce a trout simultaneously as a passing chav issued the classic "you won't catch nothing in there" line. I was about to point out that this was grammatically incorrect, but didn't want a punch in the face and the fish seemed a decent enough reply. I guess that the moral of the tale is not to judge the fishing by the scenery then. In fact, a strange setting only adds to interesting fishing. My favourite snap shot from a few erm, "vibrant", urban locations has to be this one however, Theo Pike trying to spot rising fish beneath the hulking mechanical arm of a neighbouring scrapyard. It's fly fishing Jim, but not as we know it: