‘The path to the river is always a delight; I make my way through spinney and copse, along margin and ditch bordered by a tangle of thorn decked in berries of seasonal red, food for plundering redwing and fieldfare alike. November is upon us the autumn wanes but lingers’
We all have our favourite seasons; spring and summer for most I would wager, but each season offers its delights. Odd it may be, but I await with relish the coming autumn and winter months. The gold of autumn is fading and the dark season is upon us. As the cold and nights draw in, a narrow-boater’s currency is fuel. Working with trees I have access to a ready supply; I split, stack and season. I favour ash, sycamore and cherry but hawthorn and holly are best; red are their berries and red hot is their heat. Our little stove warms our boat, our home.
Most folk shun this season but there is something about a winter’s night, listening to the rain and hail sting the windowsand feeling the wind tug at our mooring ropes. Aboard, we are cocooned, safe, comfortable and content, with our little stove burning bright. I load another log, watching the flames catch and dance, our Jack Russel soundly snoozes; her gentle grunts and snores lull us to sleep.
Living aboard a narrow-boat brings with it an intimacy and appreciation of the elements and the ever turning wheel of the year; one is closer to nature, fine tuned to the rhythms and whims of the environment we find ourselves a part of. The first skeins of the year usually coincide with the boat’s stove being pressed into service and as much as we would love to hibernate, these signs tell me that once again I should ready my tackle, to angle for the grayling.
I have a deep appreciation for grayling above that of all other fish; it is unique, mysterious and beautiful. This fish is discerning in its preferences, for do not grayling haunt the most lovely of places? They are seekers of cold pure waters and the spate rivers of the north nurture my quarry. My rivers are rain fed and fickle, a juxtaposition of power. One day the angler can find a benign river, babbling merrily over boulder and rock and the next, a raging torrent. Thundering through rock and gorge, the angry waters become a broth of beer-stained waters.
But take heart, for as quick as these rivers rise, they fall away,furious no more; it is truly a wild, untamed environment,befitting of a fish not manipulated by the hand of man. The grayling is a signal of freedom in armour-plated pewter, shot through with amethyst, a sail of crested vermillion. Seek out the grayling amongst pools and glides, flowing through moor and dell; biting freely but battling gamely.
I have caught many species of fish, both large and small, but the grayling captivates me most of all. I become engrossed by the fishing, enthralled and bewitched by her ladyship’s presence. A short winter’s day passes by in the blink of an eye; gone in a blur of red-tipped, Righyni floats dancing and riding upon steel-cold waters; thumping rods and writhing fish. The winter deepens, with mornings of freezing fogs and freezing guides, the landscape a haze of sepia tones of harsh,skeletal silhouettes. For the enlightened angler the grayling is a conduit to a realm of atmosphere and magic, to an escape and a solace from a modern world gone mad.
The path to the river is always a delight; I make my way through spinney and copse, along margin and ditch bordered by a tangle of thorn decked in berries of seasonal red, food for plundering redwing and fieldfare alike. November is upon us the autumn wanes but lingers.
The small tributary that I fish twists and turns through a tunnel of trees, the last of the year’s leaves cling on, russet and forlorn. No spates have affected the valley for now, piles of leaves litter the margins, waiting to be swept seaward in their millions when the next rains fall. The fishing is tight, no room for long rods. A ten-foot Allcocks ‘Lucky Strike’ will be the baton by which I conduct current and flow. Its action is mellow yet cushioning, perfect for the graylings gyrating fight.
I make enquiry of every promising glide and run. A pinch of maggots and I send the float on its way, ever expectant that the little red beacon will be extinguished before it completes its traverse. There’s an element of exploration to grayling fishing, particularly when faced with an unknown river, the expectation of each pool and run, the anticipation of what is beyond the bend of the river. There is an eternal optimism that with the next bite the sweeping strike will meet sullen, heavy resistance. Hope springs eternal that maybe, twisting and turning below, is a specimen to stoke the embers of any angler’s dreams.
I knew this river well. However, that fact detracted little from the pleasure of the day. A flurry of silver was my reward and all too soon the sun rides low to the west. Retracing my steps along the river bank, amongst gnarled stunted oaks garbed in moss and lichen, I pick my way through tussocks of reed. A woodcock takes flight borne forth on angular wing-beats, melting into the gloom. It is sights like this that feed my soul; if fishing was just about catching I would have hung my rods up long ago. I want to feel part of nature, to be able to forget who I am. I find that there is a rich element of visual bliss connected with grayling fishing and I think it is this which appeals greatly.
Climbing the rickety stile by the old stone bridge, the November moon rises bloated and full. The first stars appear, I sniff the air, my breath steams, for winter comes tonight. A hard frost will form, but tomorrow I shall return, to once again fish for Crothell, down waters that slide over stone touched with verglas, under cold, clear skies…
Writing & Images – Danny Taylor, Winter 2024
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