fishydreams

The last time Paul Reddish and I were together in the north of Spain he was kind enough to extend an invitation to fish for grayling on a chalk stream back in the UK and, never having caught a grayling or fished on a chalk stream, I would have been crazy not to take him up on his offer.

And so yesterday, on the winter solstice, we met up to fish the Wylye, a stone’s throw from Stonehenge where, earlier in the morning, druids, pagans, morris dancers and other assorted nutcases were feverishly engaged in whatever kinds of rituals they get up to. As Paul was driving me from the train station at Warminster to our beat of the river, he noted that there would have been no sunrise for these guys to witness, given that the sun had decided not to put in an appearance and the revellers were instead enveloped in misty clouds. Whether this was to be an evil omen remained to be seen, but we figured we ought to get to the river and see if we could extract a fish or two just in case. What could be nicer than to sneak in a grayling or two before the world comes to an end?

Paul was good enough to kit me out with a pair of waders and set up an 8 foot six 5 weight fly rod. The water was higher than normal and carrying a little colour, so we both decided to fish a single nymph under an indicator. The challenge would be to find the grayling, which tend to shoal, and so some prospecting was going to be needed to locate them.

As it happens, the fishing turned out to be challenging. Paul had a nice wild trout and, it being out of season, the fish was quickly returned. Leapfrogging, we explored one promising-looking stretch after another, but the fish were either absent or not willing to play ball. Striking to a movement of the indicator more often than not produced a twig or some submerged debris, and bankside trees and submerged structures levied the usual toll.

Despite an initial take from a smallish fish that threw the hook, after some time I was beginning to think that it may not be my day and that the wild grayling here would elude me. Whatever the outcome, I was keen to stick at it until the light was gone so that, at the very least, I could truthfully say that I had given it my best shot. But luck was on my side and, with perhaps half an hour of daylight remaining, I had a trout, which helped me regain focus, and shortly afterwards the indicator disappeared and instead of a fragment of sodden vegetation a fish kicked the rod into life.

Maybe I have the revellers to thank for the favourable outcome of their incantations. Maybe it was some kind of druid magic that turned a drowned twig into a glistening fish, in the way that Yeats had a silver trout transform magically into a vanishing, glimmering girl? (Okay, I’m stretching things here – I’ve just had a pretty large glass of red wine and am keen on having another!)

Anyway, Paul showed up as I was playing the grayling. It was a beautiful female and there was just about enough light remaining, on this, the shortest day of the year, to capture a couple of shots of the fish and another of me looking rather pleased with myself!

A winter solstice grayling — what could be better than that?