There’s light from the wolf moon, a hoot from an owl,
Death swoops from the trees, and predators prowl.
Hibernal slumber, all but done,
There’s frosted silk, from spiders, spun.
There’s a whisper of spring, a glimmer of light,
The days grow longer, less dark, the night.
New growth, new life, new ventures too.
There’s speckled trout, to pursue
Meandering streams, through valleys flow,
With fur and feather, that’s where I’ll go.
With cane and silk I’ll cast my fly,
To fool a trout, whilst wafting by.
And should my fly not raise a fish?
To be elsewhere, I would not wish.
Mercifully, the month of the wolf moon has passed, and with it the opportunity for deep self reflection; or as ancient folk-law would have us believe. It is February, a blessedly short month, the vernal season is almost upon us, and natures’ awakening beckons.
Notwithstanding winters occasional apricity, I heartily abhor the chill, rain, sleet and darkness that characterises the brumal months. Although a joyous occasion for most, I am somewhat lacking in cheer. Spring heralds the end of the coarse fishing season; it is time to hang up the rods.
It is though, as it should be. We must let nature procreate and blossom, unhindered by human intervention, to its most bountiful advantage.
The autumn and winter fishing has been plagued by heavy rain floods, and storm force winds: an inevitability of global warming and climate change.
The valleys have been scoured by floodwater, all manner of riverine creatures have battled the wild turbulent flows, polution, and the inevitable disruption of their natural habitats.
One fervently hopes, that the gravel beds and spawning grounds, so vital to sucession and recruitment, are uncompromised by the destructive energies – largely of mans’ making.
A piscary is a sanctuary; a safe place to fan the embers of a dwindling spirit, restoring the flame of our inner being.
In clement weather, one can bask in anglings’ curative efficacy.
Whilst pursuing this fine avocation under the aegis of mother earth, the winters’ tempestuous legacy yields to a flourish of buds, blossom, and birdsong. All that, which appeared skeletal, and lifeless, will be resurrected with joyous fervour.
Spring marks the beginning of the salmonids season. After the winter spawning period, the weather warms, and trout actively forrage for aquatic invertibrates. In a few weeks time, they will be gorging themselves on spent mayfly.
These exquisite insects have a tragically brief existence. Once hatched, the nymphs spend a year or more under water, risking predation from fish, rodents and reptiles. Having survived the perils of the depths, they haul themselves from the water, shedding skin, and morph into a winged sub-imago. They then seek bankside vegetation or trees, resting a while before shedding once more, to become the adult imago. In this, their most magnificent incarnation, they take to the air on seemingly transparent wings, they mate, in flight, and die within a day. The female expires on the waters’ surface having laid a profusion of eggs, the males fly off to die on land.
In these coming months, I have the inclination to fish the fly on a small local river, a tributary of the larger river I normally fish for coarse species.
It would perhaps, be better described as a brook, narrow enough in places for an agile angler to leap across with tackle to hand, and a small canvas bag slung from the shoulder.
I have a sweet little seven foot bamboo brook rod, which will flick a silk line delicately, yet purposefully, to any position of my choosing, either to cover a rising fish, or to prospect a likely looking slack where, I fancy, the trout will be holding station in the slow current. With minimal movement of tail and fins, they stem the flow, intercepting food items washed down towards them.
The fish will not be large I imagine, but the sight of a wild brown trout, beautifully marked with crimson spots and embossed golden flanks, is a joy to behold despite their dimunutive stature. Brownies are feisty for their size too, and provide good sport on finely tapered cane.
I have not cast a fly for some seasons now, I imagine the rust in my joints will impede my prowess to an extent, but mercifully, little effort is required with a short rod when fishing a stream.
A riverside stroll with just a rod, net and bag is a liberating experience. The oft-quoted tenet
applied to golf “a good walk ruined” is anathema to this noble pursuit.
Wandering through a meandering river valley, brings much joy and satisfaction. The experience is gilded by the prospect of netting a fish or two. Even on those occasions when ones quarry refuses to cooperate, there is peace of mind and spirit that transcends a slight bruising of a piscators ego.
I never feel alone in such environments, the smells sights and sounds, are constant and welcome companions; bleating sheep, the soft humming of contented cows and the warble and chirping of birds, provides all the audible stimulation I need. I often return the chatter too – in truth, I suspect many of us do.
Writing – Jeremy Croxall, Derbyshire, February 2024
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