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.

Fishing with the Fly Punk

There are places we travel to fish that are extremely prolific and others that are simply good for the soul. Ireland is both, and a place I'd sorely wanted to return after some enjoyable pike fishing a few years back. These days I'm also just as keen on my trout fishing, and I guess you could describe me as a "successfully rehabilitated" pike angler. You might say the same about my host Aidan Curran (aka Pubz McWreckthegaff), an angler with plenty of teeth marks on his angling CV who's now just as happy tangling with trout. Not that you might guess so from this piece of ongoing current work from his wife, Pony:

Anglers come in all shapes and sizes, but it's probably fair to say that with his red mohican and taste for punk rock, Aidan is not exactly your typical fly fisher. Then again, with a love of "coarse" fish and aged clearly below 50, I'm probably not either. We broke the usual rules about discussing politics and religion fairly quickly, while also swapping flies and ideas along the way as the car rattled with raucous tunes. Our main target was the legendary River Suir near Tipperary, but we must have spent as much time on tributaries such as the Ara. Such streams are about as idyllic as it gets for a travelling angler.
It was an "educational" experience in more ways than one on our visit. Ok, so hot weather had rendered waters low and clear, but these trout were as spooky as I've ever fished for. There were stacks of them, but no matter what we tried for the first two or three hours, you couldn't help but send them scurrying. Perhaps the sheer head of them was part of the problem: you'd see one spook and literally stir up a dozen of its mates up in the process.


I then finally got the chance to get even with a little tip-off from local guide George McGrath, who can be seen above with Aidan, studying a bridge pool and issuing some advice. Very much an authority on fly fishing in this neck of the woods (+00353 085 1519770), George is one of those old school heads who will tell you in no uncertain terms which flies work and what you should or shouldn't be doing. And he certainly proved the worth of local knowledge by lending us a few flies, including a tungsten beaded nymph that I used to hook, but sadly lose a lovely wild fish of perhaps two pounds. Blast! It was only later in the evening that fish could be picked off more easily and we had some measure of revenge:

The days proved tough in general, where distinctly un-Irish weather proved baking hot and not ideal at all for trout. Not all bad, because this did make for fine weather to get out and see the local countryside and culture, probably also preventing my girlfriend from going mad. The "Rock of Cashel" was one highlight, as were the Guiness, sea food and home made soda bread we dug into:


It was to be a trip of tricky fishing during daylight hours in general, albeit punctuated by short flurries of activity late and even into darkness. I don't have the space here to go into the whole shooting match (and naturally, I'm always keen to save some of the really juicy plot for my next magazine articles), but it did make me wonder why night fishing isn't more popular at home for trout. The main reasons are simple: while the darkness conceals line and angler, its also true that all the little creatures come out to play, feeling safer, while the trout follow suit, including the bigger ones.

There were many lessons then, but one of the biggest was to pack more caddis type patterns in future, and especially the smaller sort, like the Balloon Caddis (above right) in a size 16 from George. I think we still sometimes have the impression that when travelling the fishing is likely to be easier and we can take liberties with flies. Wrong on both counts! If I picked up one key message other than staying late, it was the value of having smaller flies in a few key patterns. Whatever your level of experience, the locals will almost always know better than you what works and having six key flies is better than boxes of the wrong versions.
And we did indeed save the best for last with a final crack into darkness. The transformation in results was staggering in fact, just by persevering into that dingy period when most anglers pack up and go home. Sport went from the odd missed take to carnage in the shallow flows where fish were suddenly queuing up for the hatch and I finished feeling pleased to have finally hit the river at "rush hour". None were vast, but the power of a foot long Irish river trout in a good push of water is still a rod-kicking thrill:


As always, the only trouble in Ireland is that you will eventually have to leave. There is simply so much to explore here though. Too much for five days, although we did also head west for a crack at some rudd. I had a the odd small one and even a hybrid on the fly, but the giants that these rich waters can produce were sadly lacking. Even so, the venue was absolutely stunning and I found a real kindred spirit in Aidan:

It's hard in fact to reduce the experience to a few lines of blog, when we did so much in the week- including a quick blast in Dublin's brilliantly musical and drunken Temple Bar area. I also did something else I've avoided for a long while, and that's to take a fish for the frying pan. Very different out here, I guess, where the rivers are quiet and fish plentiful. We treated the best of my brown trout to butter, salt and pepper. I'm not about to make it a habit over here, but washed down with a drop of ale it was a real treat.