Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?
- Details
- Published on Thursday, 09 August 2012 18:08
- Written by Scott Deakin
As a self-confessed fishing junkie I am always on the look out for my next hit, through the years I have tried and become obsessed with most forms of fishing, lately my drug of choice has been saltwater fly-fishing.
Few environments are as harsh, challenging and downright fascinating as the coastline of western Scotland and for anglers like myself it is a drizzle soaked nirvana. I regularly fill my fuel tank and make reconnaissance trips up and down this stretch of coast, scoping out potential marks, interesting features and quiet corners that escape most peoples attention, I had one such place earmarked for a trip as soon as the tides suited and I was off work, an all too rare occasion might I add. Finally, during my annual summer holiday I had a date set and asked my mate Stephen if he fancied a shot at some bass, being the only person I know that is as crazy on fishing as yours truly I already knew what his response would be.
After a long slow morning of exhuming neglected gear from the depths of my cupboard we were eventually en route to the hallowed bass grounds ( I say hallowed, at this point it was all speculation), the two hour drive passed in the blink of an eye with the usual hyperactive conversation that precedes this kind of trip, despite us having spoken about it for what seems like years, this was to be the first time either of us had ever cast a fly for bass.
Unusually for a Scottish midsummer day we were greeted with glorious sunshine and a cloudless sky, conditions which seem to unite all fishermen in a state of fear, I however, happen to love these Mediterranean type days, regardless of your success’s on the fishing front at least you always come away with a tan. As soon as we stepped out of the car we were caressed with a gentle westerly breeze, barely enough to ripple the surface of the sea but with just enough strength to waft the intoxicating aroma of the saltwater into our nostrils and get us into fishing mode. We got set up quickly and despite sitting in an ants nest to put my waders on there were none of the hiccups that often blight this vital stage of such a trip, no missed eyes whilst threading the rod up, no forgotten essentials… such luck always makes me feel like I’m going to be punished later for my painless start.
We both selected almost identical set-ups, nine foot rods for a nine weight line, ten foot 15lb leaders and small baitfish imitations. I am fairly blasé when it comes to fly patterns, believing that if it’s presented well and looks like something a fish might eat then it should work. Stephen on the other hand is a little more scientific and changes regularly to provoke a response.
His methodology was first to produce some interest with a nice sea trout mouthing the fly but managing to evade capture, it was encouraging to see that there was potential for other species at this mark and early interest always spurs you on to fish harder. With this in mind I set about exploring the shallow broken ground that makes up this piece of coastline, small sandy coves are interspersed with rugged fingers of rock, every inch teeming with life, it makes for a very beautiful as well as engaging place to fish, despite the enormity of the Atlantic ocean, there are still plenty of intimate corners where you can fish under your rod tip and contact some of the creatures that inhabit this astounding place.
It wasn’t long before I had my first encounter with one of these denizens of the deep either, albeit in water that was anything but deep. I had stumbled upon a little backwater that flooded at high tide and seemed to collect all the weed and detritus in a five mile radius, if ever there was a place that could produce mullet this was it. Upon closer inspection a few fish began to reveal themselves, dorsal fins and small swirls betraying their presence, for once my calculations proved to be correct, right under my nose was a huge shoal of mullet, some of them nudging eight or nine pounds! At this point I had a flashback, clearly recalling the moment when I consciously REMOVED the mullet flies from my box, based on the notion that today was to be bass or bust. Nonetheless, I tried to put this to the back of my head and see what could maybe pass as a meal for these notoriously finicky feeders. My fly selection failed me so being the (begrudgingly) nice guy that I am, gave Stephen the most subtle shout I could muster to come over and tackle these brutes. To cut a long story short, these fish proved to be just as difficult as the hundreds of articles I’ve read suggested they’d be. Just shy of two hours was spent pestering the same shoal with a few tentative nibbles to show for it, however, it proved to be some of the most enthralling sport I’ve ever had, mullet fishing is a drug, whereby the heartache and frustration of tackling them seems so insignificant when compared to the thrill they reputedly give when hooked, I for one am now an addict.
At this stage of proceedings we were quite late into the evening, the sun had dropped in the sky, the air temperature was a little more “Scottish” though still extremely balmy and it's times like this that remind you why you fish, I took a while to myself, perched myself on a rock and just soaked it all up. As one of the unfortunate folk who live miles from the coast I don’t get to spend anywhere near as much time here as I’d like and it’s all too easy to get caught up in the fishing too much to really appreciate where you are and what’s going on around you. I know for a fact that this particular session wouldn’t have been half as memorable if I hadn’t watched the seals playfully work their way around the rocks just offshore, marveled at the gannets piercing the surface of the sea like shrapnel or spent ten minutes watching a palm sized flounder work its way across the sand in front of the volcanic throne that I had selected in the shallows. That’s what fishing means to me.
I was no longer bothering myself with the difficulties of catching bass, I’d had more than my fair share of enjoyment out of the sea that day, it seemed almost gluttonous to carry on fishing, but I moved back to a spot between a little islet and the shore, at this mid-point of the tide a nice current runs across this small gulf, the only respite from the push of the ebb being offered by the legions of bladder wrack strewn boulders that punctuate the area. This was textbook bass country.
I carried on casting nonchalantly at the small eddies that hugged each boulder, just savouring the last hour of light when I looked lazily at Stephen only to notice that his rod was bent nicely into what I sincerely hoped was our target species. I ran as fast as water laden-one size too big waders would let me and sure enough, cradled in his hands was a magnificent school bass of maybe two pounds, I had seldom seen such a gorgeous creature although the way in which it had devoured his fly was nothing but savage, showing its true colours as a fearsome predator. I could hardly contain my happiness for my mate at this point, in reality, it makes no difference who catches the fish, we come out in hope of meeting animals that until now had only existed in magazine articles, tv programmes or any other form of fishing media, just getting to admire them in person is enough for any true angler. That being said… my carefree approach was instantaneously ditched and I cast with renewed vigour at every likely looking patch, keen to hook-up with the most revered sporting species in British waters.
I was beginning to lose faith but when I reached for my fly that was shrouded in twice its own weight in weed, there was a huge swirl behind my offering! My heart rate instantly doubled as I could clearly see the cavernous mouth and spiny dorsal fin of the Atlantic bass that I had coveted so much, I lifted the fly again as in the maelstrom that the fish had created I could no longer see him, only for the fly to be grabbed right at my feet! The second I applied pressure he made it crystal clear that he did not approve of my actions and took off on a searing run, burning my finger with the fly line in the process, I kept the pressure up and felt a series of thunderous headshakes up the line, this gear is so sensitive that you really feel every muscle contraction and every lunge. There was literally nothing I could do to overpower the fish short of literally using my bodyweight and walking backwards towards the shore, surely no bass anywhere could contend with my 100kgs? All I achieved with this was to provoke a more aggressive reaction and he steamed off on another run, this however seemed to be his undoing and finally with my wrist aching and finger stinging from the saltwater getting into the burn, I had subdued my opponent in the shallows. There was a strange kind of double edged disbelief when I nursed him in my hands, here was a fish weighing no more than four pounds which was way bigger than I expected to catch, especially for the first time and on fly tackle, but I simply could not believe the power that it possessed. Logic would suggest that a creature of that stature could never display such incredible strength but I’m sure glad he did! As with all my catches he was carefully held in the shallows and allowed to recuperate before being released into the realm where he reigns supreme and can continue his tyranny over the poor baitfish that share his patch.
In reality, the night was never going to get any better than that, sure we may have caught a few more fish if we stayed but we were well and truly satisfied, why push our luck? We retired back to the car with smiles that would need to be surgically removed from our faces, the long drive home seems such a small price to pay for what we had gained that day, it really doesn’t get any better.
Scott is a 24 year old from Cumbernauld who divides his time equally between making a racket in hardcore punk bands and spending all his meagre wages travelling the length and breadth of Scotland pestering anything that will take a fly.