(published previously on PurePiscator)
Saturday 1st September 2007.
So far it had been a good day. Fishing a new beat with the Nymph, 17 grayling, with one going a very respectable 17 inches and one very wild trout of 14 inches had so far graced my net. I was starting to feel tired, with the pub beckoning, as I approached the deep water at the top of the reach. My mind was wandering, contemplating that first pint of Wadsworths and perhaps discussing with Adrian, the club keeper, the potential of this relatively under fished beat... out of the corner of my eye just under the low, overhanging tree branches ahead, I noticed a very stealthy rise to a flotilla of tiny black flies wafting in the back eddy.
In a flash I was concentrating again. There really is something addictive about this wandering style of angling that awakens the subconscious hunting instinct...there it goes again, what a stealthy rise this fish is making. Certainly not the splashy, porpoise-like, rise of the bottom dwelling grayling nor the urgent, jumpy rise of the small trout indigenous to this river. This rise was different more cautious, calculating even. This fish was merely sipping in the fly with the minimum of fuss, an old hand in the art of concealment and self preservation – this had to be one of the big old Brownies Adrian had told me sometimes show up and even more rarely make a mistake...I wanted it!
I began to mentally calculate the downfall of Leviathan by presenting the Nymph, a self-tied size 18 Black Betty, without the inconvenience of the low branches making their guest appearance on the end of my line. To avoid this imposition, I would need to cross the river and make my attempt, upstream and across, perfect at the first attempt or the wise old fish would be lined...game over.
The problem confronting me was that the river was impassable at this point for two reasons: the fish would see me in mid river and decide it did not like what it saw...spooked; and the depth was such that one clumsy step could result in a very cold feeling 'in me chesties' and lower down for that matter. Therefore, with discretion being the better part of valour, the decision was made to slowly make my way back downstream and cross in the shallows and sneak back unnoticed on the opposite side utilising the available cover as proscribed in my I – Spy book of Indian Lore...heap good idea!
Twenty minutes later and sweating like the proverbial porcine beast, I was back in position with leader and fly in good order...no wind knots etc. The sweat was running down the inside of my glasses and drawing the 'Stuka like' attention of midges to my face and hands. Itching and sweating, the heat of the day seemed intense, was the fish still there? My mind ran the questions through my brain...had I been spotted...had the fish stopped feeding...had the source of insects dried up...had some other disturbance put the fish down...still no sign. A small tinge of despair began to well up within me, after all that effort you've gone and blown it you old fool. I could almost taste the beer luring me away and yet another tale of the 'one that got away' to the denizens of the hostelry. Tempis did not fugits, but after what seemed like an age passing, I did espy the small sipping rise again. The relief I felt was almost tangible; silly I know, a fish is just a fish or so the non-anglers tell you but what do they know. They have never felt the elation of a good day with some good fish, recaptured forever in your minds eye nor the dejection that fishing can induce when a large specimen has just left your line blowing pathetically in the breeze...IT MATTERS!
The most immediate problem now facing me was to present the fly to the fish – I had one shot. Not a problem to the fishing Gods who seem to be able to cast accurately with a thistledown presentation every time the need arises; or so they tell us. But for a mere mortal like me I rely entirely on luck and a favourable tail wind. Tentatively, I let the fly fall upon the stream to drift down paying out the length of line I estimate is needed to make the cast. There is no room for any overhead acrobatics here, so a left- handed, semi Spey roll cast is the order of the day. The execution, whilst not perfect, drops the fly into the target zone, with a satisfactory plop. I find a small plop as the nymph hits the water, tends to produce an aggressive take, leaving the dullard at the other end of the line time to hit the fish.
'God Bless You'...I strike on autopilot, with a twist of the wrist...fish on! The power exerted by the quarry catches me unprepared as it rushes under the canopy. I need to ease this fish out with guile, such as I possess, a 2lb tippet and 4wt rod are not really designed for a stand up fight. I drop the tip under the water and tease the fish out of its lair; an old match fishing trick when out gunned by a bigger than expected fish. There is something in the determined fight that is neither Trout nor Grayling and I catch a flash of silver as the fish turns in mid river. Then with a little more applied side strain, the line making an interesting chiming sound, from out of the depths 'Kraken Awakes' revealing a big old gob 'like a gasometer,' with the nymph bang to rights in the scissors – it's bloody big old Chub!
'Go on my son, have another gulp of air' I mutter. Grudgingly the fight seems to be going down a one- way street, but as I lean forward with the inadequate wooden trout net, a curious dampness runs down my leg, I've gone too far again. The water tells me not to stray much further, or the fish won't be the only one swimming. Finally, after an annoying knit one, purl one with the net 'victory is mine'. What a pristine beauty, not a mark on it. The forceps were needed to get the hook out and after a minor indignity with the 'Little Samson's' to reveal a weight of 4lb 8oz, Mr Chevin sulked back to his lair, with a flick of his tail, a wiser more thoughtful fish.
Back at the club hut, Adrian seemed excited by my capture of such a large Chub and told me it equalled the club record but felt mine was the better effort, as the fly was its downfall and not bait. 'Better not tell Peter (the club chairman) though, as he hates Chub'. We both giggled in a conspiratorial way and retired to the pub to tell anyone that would listen over a well-earned pint, the tale of 'The Big Fight at Lower Duck Island'.
