River Dane Tragedy & Triumph

River Dane Tragedy & Triumph By Nicholas A Grasby

I'm a big angler, and towards the end of last year a friend and I had arranged a day's fly fishing on very overgrown stretch of the River Dane in Cheshire. The trip has started as they always do, with various mounds of paraphernalia going into the back of a land rover, complete with supplies of food and two ridiculously big flasks of tea. Obviously this kind of information is important especially if it feeds my optimism for the fishing, rather than makes me wish I'd stayed in bed!.
 
We then drive the 30 minutes or so towards the river and despite being men now, and boys no longer still arguing over who's the better angler and which part of the river each of us will claim. On arrival at the river we begin the unpacking of the gear and excitably begin the setting up of the rods for the day ahead. Even on a wet winters morning we still hurry across the fields separating us from the first glimpse of the river and what beasts may be awaiting their breakfast!.
 
Happy to be now by the river I decide to walk downstream to begin the day and after some deliberation, I decide on a spot by a deep pool in between banks of overgrown willow and alder where the low autumn sun penetrated the water illuminating the first few feet into blue and green before fading to black with increasing depth. With somewhat cold and frosty fingers I unattached the hook which I had “dressed to impress” (the trout at least) in the style of a seasonal nymph. My initial cast went into the inky depths of the first deep pool which at this time of year was pulling through a considerably fast autumn current, resulting in the fly losing it’s target and a quick retrieval of line was required. It's at this point I should mention I'm fishing with a newly purchased £250 rod on its second outing and after quickly re-upholstering the fly, I once again arc my line out into the river. After what seemed milliseconds, the rod tip ripped round like an explosion as a suitably large fish tore off with my bait.
 
Excited to be into a fish so early and knowing how gutted my fellow angler would be from the capture I hit into the fish hard, but as I did so, the fish had other ideas, and torpedo like continued on it's chosen path; with a sharp crack my line snapped and with the fish gone the rod tip continued its journey towards a tree branch. It’s at this point time slows way down bringing you back from one world of hooked fish excitement into another of fishing tackle peril, as the rod begins its impact with the offending tree; and with all the grace of an Italian footballer the tip broke off a foot from top and crumpled into the grass.
 
Mortified at the loss of the fish, the breaking of the tip of the rod and the slow realisation that; alas, that happened to be the only rod I had brought with me for the day and going home would not be an option I had to think fast. I then remembered that within the mounds of gear I had an old fly fishing line in my waistcoat pocket and in a moment of sheer Heath Robinson creativity I began to whip (Robinson Crusoe Esq.) the broken section of the rod onto the main body of the rod.
 
After much tweaking, testing and bending, I had created what to the outside world looked liked something which would be considered more for the Saatchi gallery than for fishing, however being a hardened fisherman I was determined to persevere; and once more I re-attached the leader and hoped for the best. Another hour goes by with no sign of life in the river, until suddenly my line rips across from a deep pool and out into the main flow. A good looking fish imitating a bar of gold breaks the surface and then bolts off towards the far bank, looking at my rod tip and praying, I begin to lean into the fish’s heavy jagged fight and after several heart stopping lunges, the fish relents and slips into the landing net showing off its tummy of  caramelised butter weighing in at just under three pounds.

Confident in my rods new found ability I went on fishing various spots along the river that day and managed to bank eight respectably large fish in total, much to the amusement of my angling friend who on witnessing the hand built worzel gummage fishing rod cracked up laughing, however had to admit defeat as he himself had caught a meagre three.
 
Bear Grylls would have been proud!.
 
Best Regards
Nicholas A Grasby