THE JOY OF FISHING
WITH MARTIN BOWLER
the Internet and we had a backup plan – a visit to Manningford Trout Fishery in my home county of Wiltshire.
In truth it could have been any one of half-a-dozen such fisheries fairly close to home, because they all looked equally good. It was £40 for four fish and a day’s fun, which sounded reasonable to me.
It was good see my mate again, and the conversation was non-stop as we headed into the Vale of Pewsey and the North Wessex Downs. Here the Avon feeds nourishing chalk-filtered water into the two lakes we would be fishing. All we needed to do was pay for our tickets and the fun could begin.
We aimed to take our time and enjoy our new playground as we stalked our quarry. I opted for a light fly rod, a 5lb Drennan Double Strength leader and a Goldhead Nymph. Just as important were a pair of polarising glasses and a hat with a brim to block the sun.
We were so relaxed that we took turns with the rod as we tried to outwit the trout, despite both having paid to fish. Sometimes it can be more fun heckling your friend and his failed attempts than making a cast yourself!
Slowly we crept around the margins enjoying the birdsong, the flowers and, of course, the rainbows and browns that drifted by, hopefully unaware of our presence. Every now and then we flicked our weighted nymph in their direction, and when it landed perfectly and fell through the water column it was wonderful to see a trout’s white mouth open and suck it in. That first song of the reel, when you’re not sure how big the fish is, is pure magic.
A morning of this rural delight was rounded off by a large ploughman’s and a bottle of beer before the afternoon gave more of the same. By four o’clock
“Our technique was sound, even though no fish were impressed”
we were back in the van with a bagful of trout to cook.
My wife had the barbecue ready when we got home and served up the fish with fresh bread rolls and a salad. It was a perfect end to the day.
The next adventure saw me joined by another friend, Peter Gibbinson. Determined to cast a line for salmon, we headed further down the valley where the Avon widens and the water meadows are lush and verdant. This was a special place, with or without a springer hooked and landed. Just the thought of encountering one was excitement enough.
I had caught a few in the past from the stretch we would fish and I promised the lads that meeting such a salmon would be the memory of a lifetime. Game fishing allows rivers to be enjoyed every month of the year, indeed those who limit themselves to coarse fish are missing out on the finest time to be on the bank. Watching the world wake up from a long winter slumber is a joy to behold.
We teamed 10 weight rods with Skagit fly lines and copper tube flies dressed in yellow and black to combat the fast early-season flow. Weed was yet to take a grip on the river so swinging out the fly was simple, as was allowing it to dangle momentarily in case a salmon was following.
You soon get into a rhythm – take a step downstream, lift the line, roll and cast, then repeat the process, all very therapeutic. Our technique was sound, even though apparently no fish were impressed by it.
Just before lunch I left my friends to prepare another ploughman’s at the fishery hut. Today its owner, Mr Goulding, would be joining us to bring its history to life.
A man from a more leisurely era, he always dresses impeccably in shirt and tie, and is a born storyteller. He related tales of a Prime Minister’s fishing exploits and his own brother’s 30lb salmon, and we were enthralled. Nobody was rushing to get up from the dusty old settee and armchair but eventually we showed willing and made a cast.
We failed, of course, which is an occupational hazard with salmon fishing.
It’s a way of life, waiting for those infrequent tugs on the line, but when one comes you’ll remember it for the rest of your days. A fish fresh off the tide with salt still in its nostrils is as wild as any creature can ever be.