I’d never been fly fishing before, but Tim is an old hand at it and knows the river like the back of his hand, so we parked the car outside the Garston pub and hitchhiked 5 miles south to slowly walk our way back upriver and see what we got. Before setting off Tim asked me how I felt about catching a killing trout. I told him that though I’m a vegan, I believe “if you’re going to eat it you should be prepared to kill it! And besides, trout tastes fantastic.”
Tim is a great teacher, patient, encouraging and kind, and I soon had the basics down, but not until Tim had emulated my mid-90’s, hook-through-the-lip feat. It was hard not to laugh. The river was beautifully clear, but trout are very well camouflaged, and while Tim spotted about 30 or more trout during the day, I spent most of it replying to his enthusiastic “Can you see it? There by the …” with unconvincing calls of “Ah, I think so.” all while gazing in entirely the wrong direction. All up I reckon I spotted about two trout before he did, plus a handful of submerged rocks, a few shadows and a couple of eddies. Tricky stuff this fly fishing – and we haven’t got to the act of fishing itself yet.
After spotting a feeding fish Tim would direct me out of the danger zone and then set into his work. Working the rod back and forth he’d extend the line and send his fly arcing out across the water landing it within inches of the trout. All too often the trout would take a look at the fly, think “Nah. I’m not eating that today.” and simply ignore Tim’s efforts.I had a couple of goes and managed to lose flies left, right and Chelsea. In bushes and trees but more often than not simply broken off the end of the line when I’d begin my forward thrust too early and the line, like a whip tip, would crack and the fly would break away.
After a few hours of traipsing up river, from trout to trout, through fields with ewes and their new born lambs, a few lost flies and many disinterested trout, Tim finally got a the right fly into the right position by a hungry trout. It gobbled the fly and Wham! Tim struck.
The battle was on. I got the landing net but the bank we were fishing on dropped into the river where the water was flowing fast. Several times Tim managed to work the fish to within inches of the net but try as I might, I couldn’t get the net around the fish. The current was strong and the trout would recover enough strength to swim away. My dry feet policy went west after about five minutes – surely one foot in the drink was worth it for Tim to land his fish. One foot soon became two and the three of us, Tim, trout and I played out a scene worthy of Last of the Summer Wine.
One attempt and I missed. Two, and then three and still I couldn’t steer the net around the trout. Then it ran downstream and the line passed over my shoulder. “You’re in the line. Don’t break it!” cried Tim. Ducking and weaving I tried to avoid the line, keep my feet and spot the fish. If my flailing around broke the line the trout would be gone. Then, there it was, only three feet behind me. “Watch out! The line’s under your arm!” Tim called. “Bugger the line,” I thought, “there’s the fish!” and I stepped forward, and in one (I picture it as graceful) movement scooped the fish up and deposited it and the net onto the bank. One beautiful 3lb brown trout.
The thrill of the kill soon wore off as I watched Tim bludgeon the trout with a stout stick. A quick killing, but still not nice. The joy on Tim’s face, his little-boy-at-Christmas-look, dispelled my feelings. I was spending a great day with a great friend enjoying something he truly loves. The skill and effort he’d shown to get his (and my) dinner, the patience, grace and care he’d shown seemed to balance things out.
With one in the bag we continued up river. I had a couple more goes for a grand result of two more lost flies and Tim, though spotting about a dozen in one short stretch, got no more bites.
Around three in the afternoon I spotted a young lamb caught on a ledge above the river on the far bank. It was about a foot above the water and three or four feet from the top of the river bank. I couldn’t see any way for it to get out. Eventually it would end up in the water and get washed downstream. As far as I could see the banks downstream were too steep for it to clamber out and for all I know sheep aren’t the strongest swimmers. “Is that lamb gonna die?” I asked Tim, pointing to it. “Yeah,” he replied and seeing the look on my face asked “Do you want to try and rescue it?” We could see the lamb’s mother pacing above it, unable to spot her child, bleating plaintively. Every so often the lamb would muster enough energy to call back.
There was nothing for it. Time to repay the trout. I rolled up my trouser legs, took off my jacket and stepped into the river. It was cold, but my earlier wading meant my feet were already numb. Tim advised me to approach the lamb from behind which meant heading downstream a bit as I crossed and then moving up to it against the current. The water was beautifully clear so I could see where to place my feet as I crossed. It didn’t look too deep, but as it rose to my knees and then halfway up my thighs I had thoughts of Billy Connelly’s “and then it kissed the underside of my bollocks” line. I couldn’t back out though. Luckily, I ended up with a few inches of freeboard between water and tackle and made it to the far bank.
Having got there I thought “Now what do I do?” I’d never picked up a lamb before. “Where should I grab it?” I called across to Tim. “When you get close, it’ll try to get away. So grab it behind the shoulders, under the arms.” That wasn’t in the script. I’d pictured a compliant lamb, helping me to help it, not a struggling, wrestling mass of sodden lamb’s wool, muscle and bone, writhing to get away.
Edging forward, my hands stretched out in front of me, I urged the lamb “It’s okay, little fella, I’m here to help you.” The poor thing was so cold and exhausted it didn’t move until I clutched it behind the front legs. Then it tried to bolt. Holding on for dear life, I hoisted it up and swung it in one motion above me over my head, launching it onto the bank. It was heavier than I expected and part way through my throw I thought I wasn’t going to get in up onto the bank so I added some extra force. The lamb sailed through the air and disappearing from view, landed with a mighty thud on the bank. “Oh shit,” I thought. “Nice one, Stu. You’ve killed it.”Wading back across the river I could see Tim watching from the bank. His face was lit up and he called to me, “Quick. Look. It’s beautiful, mate.” I turned but was still too close to the bank to see what was going on. Tim told me later that the lamb sprang to its feet and the mother and lamb ran towards each other, bleating, to meet up. By the time I’d got to the other shore the lamb was happily feeding and the mother had that typical ewe’s nonchalant “I’m being suckled on” face.
I was a beautiful sight and I felt really proud of myself. I’d killed a trout and saved a lamb. I think they balance out. Sure at some point the lamb will end up on someone’s dinner table, but for now it’s with its mum. And the trout? It tasted fantastic.
Wading back across the river I could see Tim watching from the bank.His face was lit up and he called to me, “Quick. Look. It’s beautiful, mate.” I turned but was still too close to the bank to see what was going on. Tim told me later that the lamb sprang to its feet and the mother and lamb ran towards each other, bleating, to meet up. By the time I’d got to the other shore the lamb was happily feeding and the mother had that typical ewe’s nonchalant “I’m being suckled on” face.
It was a beautiful sight and I felt really proud of myself. I'd killed a trout and saved a lamb. I think they balance out. Sure at some point the lamb will end up on someone's dinner table, but for now it's with its mum. And the trout? It tasted fantastic.
