UK Saltwater Fly Fishing

UK Saltwater Flyfishing By Joe Walker

Following on from the modest success of the recent Wales mini-meet, I had high hopes for orchestrating a memorable morning for the Southern Crew. After a frankly inhumanly early start on Sunday (made possible for me only by taking refuge at the Mother-in-law’s on Saturday night…..such are the sacrifices we make for our sport) I picked up Steve (aka Portcullis) and we trundled bleary eyed and unshaven to the meeting point at our first mark. There was a solitary, small and undernourished looking camper van parked in the car park when we arrived, curtains drawn, so we diligently and dutifully made no attempt to be quiet whatsoever, on the basis of the fact that if we were forcing ourselves to be here at this unearthly hour, the least they could do was to be awake to acknowledge the fact.

The weather was spectacularly compliant, with a honey toned sunrise over an almost metallic smooth sea. The venue was a shingle-fringed bay of shallow water, peppered by small rocks and muddy patches, with abundant olive-brown fronds of bladderwrack peeking through the surface. A few birds wheeled over the glassy sea in a casual manner, but it was pretty still.

It wasn’t long before Trevor and Andy arrived, each bringing their own testament to the fact that the human brain is not designed to function well in the half-life that is an existence between the normal diurnal and nocturnal ranges. That is to say, Trevor forgot his waders and Andy, wishing to go one better in the forgotten crucial equipment stakes, left his reel at home. Fortunately the reel situation was resolved with a spare, but Trevor’s legs were to remain unclad and at the mercy of the in-temperate seas.

Perfect early morning conditions

By this time, there were increasing signs of activity in the water. Small swirls and splishes were beginning to punctuate the stillness. We all tackled up with floating lines (8 and 9 weights) and a range of clousers and made the short walk to the desired part of the shore. Away to the south west an impressive bank of sea fog slowly peeled back to reveal Portsmouth. There was unfortunately nothing we could do about that so we started fishing.

Fish out of the fog

It became apparent that the water in certain areas was teeming with small baitfish. So much so that it was very much like the shoals of ‘Rainbait’ I’ve seen in the tropics; disturbance of the water’s surface, no matter how small, sent pulses of panic through the jittery little creatures and it appeared as if rain was falling gently from the most isolated showers in the world. And no wonder they were nervous, as it became apparent that small bass were having a thoroughly enjoyable breakfast at their expense.

Andy, Steve and I waded out. Andy was first to hit into a couple of these little silver hunters. A quick shout revealed he was fishing an Olive & White clouser. I had a rummage in my fly wallet, as with some foresight I had that very previous day tied up a couple in different sizes. I opted for a fairly sparse size 6, tied with Olive Bucktail and shimmery white DNA Holofusion fibres. The effect was instantaneous. A modestly fast strip was interrupted halfway in by a sharp tug, and a spirited Schoolie bass flipped and thrashed through the water.

Andy shows us how it's done

Yours truly hooks.....and celebrates the fact that size isn't everything

The thing about bass is that even when they’re small, they never fail to evoke admiration. Glistening like polished, wet chrome in the day’s soft, fresh sunlight, they are a marvel to behold and you can’t fail but take enormous pleasure in catching and releasing one and watch it dart erratically back out to join it’s chums.

From that point on, the fish, though small, came with delightful frequency. More and more bass showed on the surface as they chased the skittering fry, and the small olive and white clouser started to account for a fish almost every single cast. Observing Andy I noticed he was regularly hitting them too. Trevor, not wanting to risk a leg-wetting too early in the day, also picked up a few from the comfort of the shoreline before eventually sacrificing his trousers and wading in to join the fray with typical British beach-bathers enthusiasm (the sort of body movements which suggest mild electrocution is taking place before the inevitable statement regarding the fact that its not so bad once you’re in…).

Fine once you're in

Only Steve at this stage stood slightly bemused in-between Andy and I, limp-lined and forlorn as the time ticked by and the bass refused his offerings. Eventually I proffered a larger Olive and White, the only other one I had in that colour, but he remained resolutely fishless. Eventually, the water began to drain noticeably from our shore and the fish retreated to a distance beyond even Steve’s commanding casting ability.

It was time to regroup on the shore and decide upon our next venue. We departed, pouring scornful looks upon the little camper van whose curtains remained firmly and stubbornly shut.

Next, we checked out a mark knowing full well that the ebbing tide had probably left it devoid of much water to fish in, but it’s always an interesting exercise to see what lies concealed. A shallow pool, fast emptying into a larger creek, was bisected by the wake of large, cruising mullet. Andy tried an exploratory cast across and down stream of the emptying waters and picked up another schoolie. The mullet simply regarded us with disdain, scored my carefully presented bread fly with ‘nil out of 10 for effort’ and buggered off as the water lowered still further. Working on the principal that h20 is a necessary ingredient for swffing, we headed off to mark 3 proper.

After a debate on car parking fees and a pitiful scrabble around the interior of the glove compartment to scrape together enough small change, we wandered off to a vast, exposed sand spit. Strong currents surged and scoured the shore, sculpting the firm sands into troughs and drifts. The water was extremely clear and shelved off steeply. Spreading out along a 60metre section we began fan-casting.

Searching the sandbars

For an hour or more, this was fruitless so we moved up further. Another swffer confirmed he’d had not a sniff all morning and Steve looked less alone in the universe. But then the ebbing tide slowed, slackened and turned. And as the harbour began to inhale fresh waters, the fish began to appear, initially the grey ghosts, and then the merest suggestion of something predatory. At first, just a hint of movement and then one or two fish breaking the surface.

It seems at this point that Fate got bored with toying with the affairs of man and went for a comfort break, as Steve’s rod finally felt the pressure of a fish and a bass put up a short but spirited resistance on it’s way to him…. before weirdly expiring. “Look, it’s okay, it’s swimming away!” said Steve as the hapless bass bobbed unnaturally downstream with it’s tail in the air. It was strange as it was lightly lip-hooked and gently returned without ever leaving the water…..certainly nothing in the way it was handled or landed would have caused it the remotest problem. The next bass that arrived again fell to Steve and this time stayed resolutely alive and kicking. His blank was well and truly over-turned.

Steve returns bass no.2

Andy fielded a few and Trevor complained that fish had cruelly teased him by following but not taking. I then felt a thump on my chartreuse and white clouser and a perfectly formed bass of about 10oz was landed and released. Followed by another slightly larger one on the very next cast.

A perfect silver ingot in my opinion!

Happiness is a fish on a fly you've tied yourself

And then…just as we were conceding that we’d better return to the car before our meagre ticket time expired, the Mackerel decided to crash the party. Once, twice my fly was tugged before a solid take and I felt the lithe, vibrating body of a good sized Mackerel steer my line rapidly from side to side. Remarkable fish mackerel, all fizz and adrenaline, and certainly great fighters pound for pound. Not to mention full of Omega 3. Mmmmmmmm. So forgive me, but I landed and dispatched it. Fish of the day, and later, dish of the day.

Handsome AND tasty!

And that was it. All in all an excellent mini-meet. All told, we lost count of the number of school bass we caught (certainly approaching 50), and though the mums and dads didn’t make an appearance, it was huge fun and a glorious morning. Trevor’s trousers became uncomfortable but he was consoled by the enormous leak in Andy’s waders. I caught more bass in a single session than I have in the last 4 years combined and Steve, well Steve was compelled to go home and frantically tie as many olive and white clousers as was humanly possible.

As is the purpose of these meets, we made new acquaintances, swapped fishy anecdotes, had a laugh and learnt loads. Role on the next one!