Dirty Old Town
- Details
- Published on Tuesday, 17 November 2009 19:06
- Written by Andrew Jackson
I remember thinking this particular guy was ‘different’. He was standing up, walking, using an unusually thick line, light pliable rod and a constant right arm casting action. I’d seen fishermen sitting gnome-like alongside canals, fishing, but not like this guy. He hardly seemed to give the fish time to find his bait.
I watched the fluid movement of his arm and saw how his line rolled out before him settling like thistledown on the water. In a matter of minutes, he had a fish, a trout taken from below the canal’s feeder inlet. He continued to work his way along the towpath, casting his line, gracefully cutting and curving through the air, landing gently before slowly retrieving, re- casting and retrieving. I continued along behind him, mesmerised, watching him, taking it all in. That’s when I, too, first became interested in having a try. To me, it seemed more active than coarse fishing, more fulfilling, so engrossing. I had to have a chat with this guy, find out more and what he was doing. I did and after a word or two, I left inspired to give Fly Fishing a try.
Yes, I had doubts…….with my commitments I couldn’t afford to spend a lot of money on lots of gear, fancy equipment, or expensive club membership just to find out it was a silly idea and that my equipment had ended hanging on the garage wall alongside my racing cycle, yet another constant niggling reminder of my impulsive nature. I began to read a few books from the library. I became aware of well-known names like Sawyer and flies like the Grey Dun. My imagination grew and it was inevitable really. It wasn’t long before I was tackled up with the cheapest outfit that money could buy and I was in search of a quiet spot to practise my casting.
I had the equipment - I now needed water. The old canal was littered with shopping trolleys, rusty bike frames and beer cans. I knew little at the time about the noble art of fly-fishing, but enough to know it wasn’t the ideal place, more a location for fly tipping.
On the plus side, it was not far from the town centre and I was unlikely to meet expert fly fishermen and suffer the embarrassment of being seen to be inept. I initially just wanted to practice my casting using a piece of wool attached to my leader. So forgetting the variety of dumped items - and even without the intention of catching a fish - I amazed and frustrated myself in equal measure with the antics of the line I played out before me. After about an hour I had the basic feel of the rod and line and when I spotted a fish lying close by under the shade of a bridge, I got impatient with only casting and I couldn’t wait any longer to use one of my brand new flies.
The hunter was born. No, it wasn’t a text book start. I cast to this same fish the rest of the afternoon without any luck and tried every fly in my small box, but still didn’t get it interested. It didn’t spook and take off either, it just stayed where it was, challenging me, taunting and teasing me I’m sure, but more often just indifferent. Finally, just before dark, as I was about to go home, puzzled at its negative attitude towards my new found interest, it surprised me, slowly rose and took my fly…..I was thrilled, my first trout, it was a good 16in fish……..in fact, as I found out when I eventually landed it, was actually a very fine Chubb.
I progressed to different sections of various inexpensive fishing locations, canals, small rivers, streams, all mainly coarse fishing sections, but all still containing fish that didn’t object to taking the fly. I had the experience of trying to catch ultra fast small dace, then having done so having it taken by a pike before I had reeled it in and eventually enjoying a long duel with the pike before I landed that.
Trout and Grayling were always my main quarry and I became more aware of their favourite environments. Lying below the faster moving feeder inlet to the canal was always a favourite spot to them and probably the very way they arrived in those still waters carried down in a flash flood from the Derbyshire Rivers.
In those early days, I also often practised on one small River that actually runs through a public park and past the rear of Sainsbury’s, not far from a MacDonald’s. I used to choose quiet times. Early weekday and Sunday mornings were best….it lessened the chance of catching a child on the back cast and, at busier times, I found I was in danger of turning fly-fishing into a spectator sport so avoided it. But on a quiet Sunday morning, I continued to cast amongst the soggy Saturday night takeaway boxes and yesterday’s discarded plastic carrier bags before the arrival of the mid- morning shoppers.
The fish I caught then didn’t know the location wasn’t the best in the world even if I did. They had adapted and survived. To the trout in those murky waters that old car wheel in the main flow appeared to be a perfect rock pool, a shelter that offered protection from the current, ideal to feed behind, so a regular favourite haunt. The half buried sunken shopping trolley, with the debris-filled mesh, provided them with a shady cool underwater cave on a hot day. The overgrown, desolate, unfrequented forgotten litter strewn bank also ensured a good taking of fly from the abundant hatches that occurred. All this was very pleasing and not too demanding on the energy levels of a hungry growing trout. They had thrived, grown in size and confidence. Finally, as it was a place seldom fly-fished …. I’m sure they thought they had it all and they were nearly right.
However, for me these obstacles provided an ideal training area. They forced me to improve the accuracy of my casting, taught me how to avoid the debris and not to get snagged and to improve. I needed to learn how to read the water, visualise where the trout would lie to feed, how the water would flow around the obstacles, how to approach the area effectively and present the fly just right so it looked natural
Now looking back at how it turned out, it did have favourable compensations and forced me to develop. Now, when I have a particularly tricky spot to reach on a more idyllic stretch of a clubs river I often manage a wry smile and visualise myself just aiming beyond the imaginary shopping trolley, gliding down past a bike frame and executing a retrieve that keeps perfect pace with the adjacent plastic wrapper. Then, as the trout rises and I see it open its mouth to take the fly and turn again for the bottom, with the fish fooled and as the line tightens, my sense of achievement heightens. I also sense the same thrill I always did when my love of fly- fishing first began
Yes as the words of the song go “I met ‘my love by the gas works wall-dreamed a dream by the old canal”.