Still Waters

Still Waters By Andrew Griffiths

A river fisher through and through, I fish the rain fed streams of the Dark Peak. Two old men fish this river,  I used to watch them, back to back, heron-still together in the water. They had fished this river all their lives and must have known every stone of it. One gave me my first fly.

"On this water," he said sagely as he dropped the fly into the palm of my hand, "Always put a bit of yellow in it."  His life-time's work and the evolution of a fly. So began my fascination with fly tying.

These were river men too. Anything else was rather disparagingly referred to as 'pond fishing' by them, albeit it slightly tongue-in-cheek.

The story of my river this year has been rain, flooding, the collapse of over-hanging bankside - and more rain. Just when the fishing would get going again, down would come the rain, tumbling off Kinder, and up the levels came again. I was starting to get seriously twitchy as still more of the season was lost to floods and coloured water.

It is against this backdrop that I had started to cast an envious eye at my local 'pond' as I drove past. Actually to call it a 'pond' is unfair. To call it a reservoir, although strictly accurate, does not convey the feel of the place. It is situated up on the Peak moorland and is a wild and desolate water.

It was after another unfishable week when I finally succumbed. As I drove past about my business there were two old guys fishing from the reservoir shore. I pulled over to talk to them.  I was no longer in denial.

I climbed over the wall and negotiated the steep slope of moorland grass down to the water's edge. The two old men were there, one fishing, one sitting beside him, both still as grit-stone.
"Any luck?" I asked.
"Not for a while." said the fisherman, not lifting his eye from the water.

"What have you got on?"
The old man thought for a moment. "Can't remember its name," he said. "A dry. But its got a bit of yellow in it."
His concentration again returned to his fly, which was bobbing along the water's edge, a few feet out from the margins.

"You know?" he said, "If I come back, I want to come back as a fly and live on the surface of this reservoir, where I will live a long and peaceful life undisturbed by trout."
I laughed and his partner laughed, as no doubt he laughs every time he hears his friend give this line to a stranger. 

A few days later I was back with a day ticket, my 8 foot river rod and 4 weight floating line - double taper of course. Not the ideal reservoir set up you would be justified in thinking, but I wasn't going to splash out on a new rod and reel set-up for what could have been no more than a one-off trip. I stood looking out at this bleak expanse of water with the rolling moorland in the background and suddenly felt very small. 

The surface was mirror-flat and I could not see a single sign of insect life. How on earth do you fish this? Then the advice of both friends and strangers began to ring in my ears. 'All this rain, coloured water, tie on something big and see if you can tempt them up.' 'Keep on the move, go and find the fish, keep moving.'

I tied on a big Grey Wulffe and got it wet. Nothing. If tumbleweed could have blown across water it would have done. 'Keep moving,' I heard again, this time replayed in my mind with a ghostly echo, 'Keep moving....'

So I did. The odd thing was, I found that I had 'kept moving' all the way along the water's edge to a solitary oak tree, just where the moorland stream fed the reservoir. I put in some tricky side casts, getting my fly to curve around into increasingly improbable places under those old oak branches. Hey! This was more like it! I was cramped, uncomfortable, had almost lost my fly up a tree and had nearly fallen face-first into the water! I could be back on my river, this wasn't like 'pond fishing' at all! I even tied on a Griffith Gnat for old time's sake, and caught..... a beautiful brownie, just north of a pound. That is twice the size I am used to catching on my river.

Confidence up now, I left the comfort of the tree behind,  tied on a daddy and threw it out into open play. On the second cast there was a wallop and a swirl and my little river reel sang as what turned out to be a 17 inch rainbow made its indignant dash for freedom. So I got to use the two pieces of equipment I had bought especially for this trip: a landing net, and the brass priest. I didn't kill this 'bow easily though. I hope I never do. But it was delicious, a rare treat for me to eat the fish as my river is catch and release.

I have since joined the reservoir fly-fishing club and am now the proud possessor of a nine and a half foot rod with matching six weight reel and line. I am avidly learning as much as I can about 'pond fishing', which has added yet another dimension for me to this fascinating sport. But I have to admit, if I am completely honest, I am at my happiest wading my small river, and if I catch a half  glimpse of the dart of a little wild brownie I know the hunt is on. And as I try to cast a fly and weave it between the branches,  the only sound I can hear is the laughter of the river breaking over stones.