Many anglers will remember their early attempts at dangling a line, the successes and failures, the good days enjoyed and not so good days endured at the outset of their waterside journey. If they are lucky, they may perhaps point to certain stand-out days, the details of which remain strong in their memory. What follows is one of mine; a very clear stepping stone, a graduation day, as I embarked on my own early angling adventures.
In mid-1973 my time as an angler had only just begun. I was ten years old and, as newcomers to river fishing, my Dad and I had decided to try a new, ‘out-of-town’ stretch. We had fished local ponds for a few weeks and caught some roach and gudgeon on bread. We then progressed to buying licences so we could try the river. A number of visits along its urban stretches allowed us to learn each time we tried. The river was home to brown trout and, taking a very simple approach with split-shot and worm, over our six or seven visits my Dad had managed to tempt two and I had miraculously caught one; my first ever trout, using my first ever fishing rod.
We had taken the thirty-minute walk to our town centre and caught the bus going north, where we would test ourselves on the upper reaches of our river. This was an altogether cleaner, pristine, wild, untouched-by-human-hand river, compared with the more metropolitan stretches we had frequented to date. A fifteen-minute bus ride took us into the rural hills and it was only a short walk from the stop to the old stone bridge that crossed the narrow stretch of river,just above the locally renowned ‘Blue Pool’.
This is a large and very deep pool, having been carved out of the rock by years of erosion. It’s a place where countless people would swim in the summer, where some were happy to dive in from high banks. Even at ten years old, I was aware ofoccasional local stories of swimmers having drowned in the Blue Pool, their bodies being recovered from underwater ledges and undercuts. Consequently, I had no intention of fishing that particular place.
The Blue Pool has a loud torrent of a waterfall at its head, even in warm summers
The Blue Pool sat at the beginning of a deep limestone gorge, the river winding its way south through an ever-darkening ravine. The tree canopy overhead did its best to keep the river in shade even through the brightest of sunny days. The limestone continued down to the water’s edge, in places forming a sheer drop into the river, in others its steep sloping sides were treacherous in winter and barely walkable in summer. This was not a place for the faint-hearted but, for those who knew these parts well, there were a small number of safe access points, some of which had been shared by a local angler in a quiet conversation with my Dad.
My father chose to fish the Blue Pool itself but, given its reputation and the fact that this involved clambering around a rocky out-crop just above the water’s surface, I was stationed at a somewhat ‘easier’ place to fish, thirty metres or so downstream.
The entrance to the gorge as it is today. I fished around the corner, out of site on the right hand side.
After the turbulent falls and narrow white-water rapids upstream of the Blue Pool, below it the river pauses and takes a breath. This takes the form of a long slow glide, a pool of dark, shadowy water, lying deep in the gorge. Direct sunlight seldom reaches the water’s surface here, even at midday. No breeze could ruffle the surface; completely sheltered, still and calmwith steep, overhanging rock faces, in places sloping all the way down into the river. There was very little greenery, only a greystone backdrop with low levels of light. It all made for an eerie atmosphere.
In times of flood and through hundreds of years, the limestone has been slowly eroded by the currents and swirls. Semi-circular hollows can be seen along the waterline as a result of the current’s work. One such hollow on the opposite bank, for some unknown reason, seemed to beckon me, holding my attention. It appeared to be the perfect place to cast my juicy lobworm. Several attempts fell rather short and although I persevered each time and left my bait where it landed, it didn’t seem quite right. This was reinforced by the lack of any interest from below the surface. That particular hollow demanded I grace it with the presence of my bait. I again retrieved my line and carefully selected a new worm, the largest in my bait box, sliding it onto the size ten hook. Two small split-shots kept each other company about eighteen inches from the bait, just enough weight to allow a meaningful cast.
To this day, I clearly remember opening the bail-arm, staring at my targeted hollow and gently swinging the bait out towards its desired destination. In doing so, I quietly summoned the help of the fishing gods and if ever there was a cast that appeared to move in slow motion, this was it. The worm and split-shots announced their arrival with gentle ‘plinks’, deep in the centre of the hollow. I held my breath as the worm slowly dropped out of sight. I had no idea how deep that area was, I just knew it was as good a place as any within my reach. As if to remind me I was not in complete charge of events, despite my heightened expectation for an immediate response, nothing happened.
I casually held my six-foot, white fibre glass spinning rod parallel to the water, the relaxed line curving smoothly from the top eye to the surface of the river. The whole gorge was filled with the distant but thunderous noise of the upstream water pouring over the limestone ledge into the Blue Pool. It certainly added to the unnerving feeling of the place; a dimly lit cathedral filled with the sound of roaring water, contrasting greatly with the calm, slow glide directly in front of me.
After a while, if I am honest, my concentration began to wane as I casually held the cork handle of the rod with my right hand, my left hand holding station on the gently sloping limestone bank that I was sitting on, my bag and landing net to my left. The water directly in front of me was deep enough to make me slightly uncomfortable. I was not a confident swimmer at that age (I’m not much better these days!) and I estimated this was at least up to my waist. I began to glance up through the trees. Despite the sun’s efforts to peep through on that day, the deep overgrown gorge allowed nothing but heavily subdued light to reach below the canopy. I watched intently as a dipper passed me, travelling upriver, one of many seen that day, flying from right to left, moving low over the… WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
I felt the cork handle of my rod suddenly move in my hand, the line was no longer curved limply down to the surface but was taught and what’s more, a strong aggressive pulling force at the end of the line was frightening the life out of me. The gorge was suddenly darker and the river deeper than before. What the hell is this? I was not a seasoned angler, I had only previously caught one eight-inch trout on the river but this… this was different and it wasn’t very nice. This was scary, VERY scary…
My basic Daiwa spinning reel had no sophisticated drag mechanism and the tension on rod and line was increasing to unbearable levels. “DAAAAAAAAD! DAAAAAAAAD!” I was screaming at the top of my voice but had no idea if my father could hear me. I kept on shouting. All the while, the rod was violently curved, its whole length being forced into brutal, savage, jagged movements. My god, how long is this going to last? This was, by any measure, the most intense experience of my ten year life. It seemed that I had been calling my father for an eternity but in reality it was probably less than five minutes. Nevertheless, I’m not ashamed to say that tears were rollingdown my face by the time my father appeared from around the rocky outcrop upriver.
Distressed and frightened I may have been, but I was not letting go of that rod, despite the hostile pulling showing no signs of subsiding.“Stand up,” my Dad said, as he stood behind me. “Keep the rod up. Keep the line tight but there’s no need to wind the reel.” Staying behind me, he put his hands on my shoulders, leaving me to hold the rod with my right hand and the reel handle with my left. The ferocity of the sharp, violent pulling was beyond a ten year old’s comprehension, until a glint of silver showed itself deep in the main channel of water. My imagination ran wild, a writhing serpent had swallowed my worm and I couldn’t see, for the life of me, how we were going to get it anywhere near the net. Snakes and crocodiles were all present in my head.
The tail end of the pool which was home to the monster
It seemed to take forever but, eventually I was allowed to wind the reel just a few turns, very slowly gaining back some line, an inch at a time. After another five minutes or so, the ‘monster’ came to the surface, rolling, twisting, splashing. “Slowly,” said Dad, “Take your time. Lift the rod and wind very slowly.” ‘REALLY?’ I thought.‘Take my time? This was real fear!’ My Dad put our small landing net into the water and managed to get it under the fish. My relief was immense and I remember my Dad saying nothing but “WOW!” as he lifted the net.
Neither of us had ever seen such a fish. We scrambled up the sloping bank to a shelf away from the water, where the net was laid down and the hook removed. The black and red spots, the buttery under-belly, the size of its tail, its eyes and head, the teeth in its mouth: the sight of that astonishing brown trout has stayed with me but, at the time, the ultimate triumph was largely lost on me. I was still shaken up, breathing deeply, very much recovering from the ordeal. As we stared at the fish a fellow angler appeared. He had heard some distant shouting from way downstream and thought he should check it out. He had fished the river for many years but had never witnessed such a colossal fish. Unfortunately, like us, he carried no camera or scales.
In the circumstances, my Dad had the presence of mind to lay the landing net handle alongside the fish. Lining up the end of the handle with its tail, he used a key to scratch a small mark on the handle, showing the length of the fish. Only when we got home could we measure it. It was common place in those days for trout of eight inches or over to be taken for the table. This fish however, deserved better. “We can’t possibly take this fish,” said Dad.
He quickly put the fish back in the net and returned down the stone bank to the water. Holding the fish upright for a few seconds, it was soon pushing hard into the mesh of the net. Dad carefully lowered the net’s rim. I stayed a few metres up the bank but the clear water allowed us both to watch the fish slowly return to its home.
No more fishing took place that day. It didn’t take us long to pack up our rods and bags and make our way back to the bus stop. When we eventually arrived home, out came the tape measure. From the end of the handle to the scratch mark was thirteen and a half inches!! This was an extremely good fish from our relatively small river. “What a monster,” said Dad, as he rubbed the top of my head. Now let it be said that in a wider context, and now with fifty-plus years of angling experience, I am very aware that a brown trout of this size would not be deemed particularly big and certainly wouldn’t merit the term ‘monster’ but at that time, a trout of ten inches was viewed as an exceptional, noteworthy fish from our river. In my inexperienced angling mind, a trout so big was the stuff of legend, the stuff that dreams were made of or, should I say, nightmares, given the way it bestowed its intimidating presence on me that day.
It took a while before I accompanied my Dad to fish the river again. For several months I preferred to sit and watch a float in small local ponds, a much quieter, more friendly environment in my young opinion.
Some details of that infamous day sadly cannot be shared. The weight of the fish can only be estimated. The exact date in mid-1973 is not clear, as old notes have not survived the passage of time and there is no photographic evidence of the fish. (I so wish we’d carried a camera in those days). The experience however, the absolute terror and the holding-on-for-dear-life, will live with me forever, as will the sight of that fish. I’m not sure any words can do the day justice, the day the monster of the Blue Pool gorge took my worm.
I went on to fish the river for many years as I grew up, until work and family life became the priorities. I had the pleasure of catching many trout on both worm and fly. For a period of time in the eighties, the local club stocked a small number of rainbow trout to add to the natural browns. The largest trout I caught in all those subsequent years was a rainbow of 2lb 4oz, an outstanding fish for the river. In heavily coloured, swollen water levels, it completely swallowed my worm and, after a long tussle and difficult hook removal, sadly could not be revived (hence the photos as shown). It measured thirteeninches from nose to tail, a half-inch short of the ‘monster’.
Throughout those ensuing years, I always carried a tailor’s measuring tape in my bag and made a point of checking the length of any larger fish. Funny that…
A 2lb 4oz rainbow trout caught years after the ‘monster’ of Blue Pool Gorge, measuring 12 ½ inches, a half inch smaller than the ‘monster’ (I still use my same fishing bag to this day).
These days I am still living less than a thirty minute drive from that gorge and, out of curiosity, have revisited on the odd occasion but to date have never fished there again. The river’s course and the gorge itself are largely unchanged in the last fifty years. The limestone banks can still be treacherous and looking down into the river continues to instil an element of fear.
I didn’t realise it at the time but on that day, from an undeniably unpleasant, traumatic experience, somehow one of the earliest seeds had been sown on the road to a lifelong passion. This passion has taken me to some beautiful places, introduced me to some truly wonderful people and provided me with so many unforgettable encounters with fish and our wider natural world, a passion that continues to give me immeasurable pleasure to this day.
Writing & Images Carl Hier – South Wales, Spring 2025
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