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Love Fishing, Love Nature

Love Fishing, Love Nature is the Angling Trust campaign that highlights how angling offers everyone the opportunity to experience the wonders of nature at first hand and encourages clubs and fisheries to ensure their waters are havens for wildlife. We asked Sportfish and Angling Trust staff to share some of their most memorable nature experiences when fishing.

NICK SIMMONDS – MEMBERSHIP OFFICER, ANGLING TRUST 

Fishing has been in my heart since my Dad took me to a local park lake over 60 years ago and sparked a lifelong angling pathway.

I’m an all-rounder, happy in whatever the fishing of the moment is, but I’d say my fly-fishing has developed most over the past few years. It started at Bewl reservoir back in 1981 and led me to fish many of the English and Welsh reservoirs over the years, where the atmosphere in the fresh air of early mornings and as the sun dips in the evening when the swifts and swallows are swooping for their supper is a delight.

With my long-time fishing companion, I’ve been spending a week on Lough Corrib at mayfly time for twenty-seven years. The fishing is different every time – and if the “bumper” years are few, they are the sweeter for it. It’s a lovely thing when a decent Corrib brownie takes the fly you tied in high anticipation the week before! One morning last year while readying the boat, a commotion in the water across the bay caught our attention, which turned out to be an otter and cubs, seemingly just larking about. Then, a chorus of “cuckoos” heralded two of those birds flying low over our heads and away across the lough.

My hankering for a taste of saltwater flyfishing has taken me to Cape Cod for stripers and Mexico for flats species in recent years. The fauna in Ascension bay is one of the highlights of a visit, with frigate birds, ibis, spoonbills, flamingos and turtles fairly common – not to mention the crocodiles and sharks which add spice to the already exciting fishing.

But my most memorable and uplifting brush with nature came on a day on the Wye at Hereford, trotting for roach and dace. The fish were obliging when out of the corner of my eye I saw the familiar blue streak heading my way. I was so pleased when the kingfisher perched on my rod – and to my amazement stayed there long enough for me to extract phone from pocket and take the picture! But it got better when the bird dived into the river and then sat on my keepnet… and then flew up and sat on my knee! I was blown away by the moment and so glad that it all happened with time enough for me to really enjoy it. It was the 22nd of December 2022 and when I told my wife the tale and showed her the photos, she said “that’s the best thing of the year” – and I reckon she was right. It is certainly something I’ll always re-live with a smile and thanks.

A kingfisher sat on the knee of an anglerA kingfisher sat on the knee of an angler
The Kingfisher on my knee…
A kingfisher sat on the edge of a landing net with the river and trees in backgroundA kingfisher sat on the edge of a landing net with the river and trees in background
...and on my landing net

PETER DEVERY – ENVIRONMENT COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER, ANGLING TRUST 

After picking up a fly rod in my twenties, learning how to cast on still waters in Hampshire – and the old Sportfish lake – I’d started to get interested in river fishing. I was still learning my rivercraft, and it was a bit of a shock to go from regularly netting four-pound rainbows to blanking on west country streams, spooking every fish I saw.  Using the old fish pass scheme, I’d find myself on a remote farm, tokens in hand, with a dodgy “map” leading to a tiny but pretty stream. I’d fish late into the evening, getting lost on my way back to the car in the dark, pulled back to the river by the sound of a ‘splosh’ from a much bigger fish.

One evening I was fishing on the Taw behind Eggesford train station, though I was just near the railway, and the hotel, it was late on a Sunday and dead quiet. It was also the middle of a dry summer with the river low, so I was wading up the mid-stream. I’d stood still for a few minutes while changing fishing flies, facing upstream keeping half an eye for any rises, taking in the moment, surrounded by a tunnel of trees, I could have been anywhere.

Just then, right behind me, I heard a very loud 'cough.'  I spun around startled. About two yards away, at most, there were four otter cubs and their mother swimming towards me. I think the mother hadn't seen me since I was standing still; then, when she got nearer or I moved, she gave the alarm.

The cubs scattered to the bank, chattering away at me for a few minutes while mum circled the pool between us barking at me, clearly not happy I’d surprised her. I backed out of the stream, sat on the other bank watching the cubs one by one work up the courage to join mum in the pool before they headed off upstream.

Three otters in the riverThree otters in the river

I thought all the commotion would have spooked any nearby fish but decided to give the pool another go. Much to my amazement a couple of casts later caught my very first wild west country brownie on an upstream dry. I’ve caught a few west county fish since, even a few of those bigger fish. But that wee eight-ounce brown is still in my mind’s eye, every dark spot on it.

JOHN CHEYNE – HEAD OF MARKETING, COMMUNICATIONS & MEMBERSHIP, ANGLING TRUST 

Growing up in the “wrong” part of Edinburgh (think Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting rather than arts festivals and castles!) I had very limited access to wild places and nature as a boy. My daily walk to school took me past tenements, factories and across busy roads. The one break in the stone, brick and concrete was crossing Newhaven Road Bridge over the Water of Leith, a little hidden trout stream that runs, mostly un-noticed and unloved right through central Edinburgh and out to the sea at Leith Docks. There is now a signposted walkway for most of the length of the river, but back in the 1980’s access was difficult. Getting onto the banks generally involved climbing a wall, hacking through mountains of nettles and brambles on waste ground or clambering through a builder’s yard when no one was looking. 

I got my very first fly rod in 1981 aged 13 and was taught how to use it by my mate Neil (who’s dad fly-fished). Once you finally got to the riverbank, it was a revelation. The Itchen it was not, and the riverside plants were often invasive balsam and giant hogweed (thankfully I seemed immune to it’s dangerous sap) but there was also a thriving ecosystem of interdependent animals that I had previously only read about in books. Up-wing flies hatched and flew around our heads in sparkling miniature murmurations. Bats swooped for moths inches above the stream as soon as the light began to fade. An early morning heron would take off vertically as we approached and fly off over the tenements like a prehistoric pterodactyl, and always there were foxes. Like most cities Edinburgh was full of them, but the ones by the river always seemed to be less unkept and mucky, less prone to finding their lunch in an overturned wheelie bin or discarded fish and chip wrapper. They were prouder, wilder. 

One incident, above all others is etched in my memory. A lovely looking trout of about a pound (that seemed huge to me back then) was rising steadily in the flow 30 yards upstream on a surprisingly warm late spring evening. Because of a couple of overhanging trees, there was no way of getting into position to cast for it, without making myself seen.

I crept along and slid down the bank to get into position, but my movement had alerted the trout and it immediately stopped rising. I was sure it was still there though and decided to be patient and wait for it to settle and begin to rise again. I sat there, trying to be still, surrounded by vegetation, softly cursing midges and slowly, slowly, nature forgot I was there.  

A gang of long tailed tits gathered in the tree next to me and a fat urban rat scurried along the far bank while the occasional olive floated past silently. It just felt serenely peaceful and even when the trout started to rise again, I just sat their taking it all in.

Two foxes near the riverTwo foxes near the river

Then suddenly there was a commotion behind me at the top of the bank and three little fox cubs came tumbling down through the vegetation, wrestling, playing and toy-biting each other. They landed about two feet from where I sat, giving off weird screeching noises as they battled. They hadn’t even noticed me and two of them continued to fight, standing on their hind legs, mouths wide, snapping at each other paws boxing noses. Above me, at the top of the bank came a loud yap. Mother had arrived and she had seen me. She yapped again, alerting them to the danger they were in by playing so near a hidden human. They jumped to attention and scrambled back up the bank safe by mum’s side. She turned to leave, then looked back, straight at me. Telling me not to follow? Remembering my face? Thanking me for not hurting them? Who knows, but it’s a look I will always remember. An acknowledgment of my existence by a wild animal. A nod to the fact that for a little while at least, I had become just another one of the animals that lived by the river.

SIMON TILBURY – GROUP HEAD OF MARKETING, SPORTFISH

I grew up in a little hamlet in the Berkshire countryside, a few miles from Newbury. Down a little windy country lane about 600 yards away was the River Enbourne. As little kids, my older brother and I would splash around in it in the summer and as we grew older we started to fish it. Not for anything in particular, just for whatever we could catch. Nets and jam jars soon turned in hooks and worms. It was there I caught my first trout. And so thing progressed. One of my friends, who I still fish with today some 40 years later, lived 3 miles away near Kintbury. I’d hop on my BMX to his house, we’d make sandwiches and then spend all day larking about and spinning in the nearby Kennet & Avon canal. And so came my first pike. We made occasional forays to the nearby River Kennet, poaching trout. We saw people fly fishing and we both somehow knew that’s what we had to graduate to. Noone in either of our families fly fished, so we were self-taught. We paid £10 per day back then to fish at Barton Court and on my second visit I caught a trout on the fly. I was 12 years old. The rest, as they say, is history.

I have fished stillwaters a little bit, but it’s always been rivers that fascinate me. I like the constant change of scenery, the different pools and flows, new challenges around every bend, the varying flora and fauna of the river bank. There’s something quite magical watching clouds of swarming mayflies dance up and down, knowing they lived underwater for 2 years before transforming into the dancing wonders before you, and that if the trout or the birds don’t eat them, tonight or at best tomorrow they will die anyway. Equally, releasing a salmon to continue its amazing journey back up the river it was born in to spawn can only leave you marvelling at the wonder of nature.

I’ve been fortunate for the last 5 years to be able to fish a mile of a little chalkstream with one other rod near where I live. We rent it from the farmer, it’s unstocked and challengingly overgrown, despite our best efforts with saws, secateurs and scythes. My record is a wild brownie of just over 5lbs. The river banks are packed with reeds, hawthorn, oak, willow, brambles, nettles and much more besides (I lose at least 5 flies every trip), making fishing inaccessible other than from in the water itself. There’s a little stile over the barbed wire at the start of the fishing with a beaten down path through the undergrowth, so you get in and wade until the top, where there’s another stile to get out. It’s practically impossible to exit anywhere else. Walking to the stile I go through lush fields, with horses and cows, scattering the birds and regularly see rabbits, foxes and deer.

Cows broke the gate and had a great time in the riverCows broke the gate and had a great time in the river
My home stretch…the cows once broke the gate and had a great time in the river
A lovely stretch of river with clear waters and green foliage A lovely stretch of river with clear waters and green foliage
The stretch of river where I caught the 5lb wild brownie

There’s something quite unique about fishing in the river rather than from the bank. You feel more connected to it, more observant of what’s going on around you and in the water beneath you. I think you become more a part of the river, and to some degree are seen that way by nature, less of a danger than intruding at the water’s edge. I’ll often stop fishing, stand still and spend a few minutes looking and listening. Dragonflies and damsels flitting, birds singing, the chatter of nature, ducks and swans, bright yellow iris, the white flowers of water crowfoot, cow parsley, water voles. I know which tree the big barn owl nests in and regularly have kingfishers swoop close past me. It doesn’t matter too much if I don’t catch a fish. Nature feeds my soul and I’ll leave with a smile on my face. These are my everyday magical nature and fishing moments. I do however have one unusual moment I’ll probably never witness again.

Every year for the past 25 years the same group of friends and I spend 3 days in October salmon and sea trout fishing on the Upper Coquet in the Cheviot hills. We blank more than we catch. Sometimes when the fishing is poor we’ll go for walks up the valleys, following the little burns upstream. On one such occasion we noticed on the other side of the water there was a heron, with a brown trout half sticking out of its mouth. The trout was large and the heron was having difficulty trying to swallow it, despite trying several different techniques. As we watched, the heron noticed us, and became increasingly desperate in its efforts. It tried to fly away, but couldn’t balance properly with the fish. We crossed the burn to get a closer look and after a few last frantic attempts it dropped the fish and flew away. We found the fish, dead by now, a lovely brownie of around 1lb, and wondered how such a fish could be caught from such a small body of water. We marvelled too at the heron’s ability to find and catch it. We took the fish back to where we were staying and fried it in butter, raising a glass to thank the heron, and laughed at its natural ability to out fish us (we all blanked that year).

The heron on the other side of the burnThe heron on the other side of the burn
The heron on the other side of the burn
The trout, caught by the heron, not usThe trout, caught by the heron, not us
The trout, caught by the heron, not us

LUCY BOWDEN – MARKETING EXECUTIVE, SPORTFISH

While I always say my passion for angling began when I was aged five years old, my parents assure me that in fact it began even before I was born on the one and only fishing trip my Mum went with my Dad while she was pregnant with me!

Sweethope Loughs is Northumberland’s oldest established fly fishery and home to quality rainbow, blue and brown trout. My Dad fished Sweethope with his friends and me for over 50 years and I’ve many treasured memories spent there. However, not only is Sweethope a great fishery, but its isolated location means it’s home to wildlife including the osprey and buzzard - so you never know what you’ll spot on a day’s fishing!

In July 2015 Dad and I were drifting merrily along on the boat together on the Great Lough – a 140-acre expanse of water – when, all of a sudden, I looked up and saw this odd shape heading our way from the middle of the lake. The shape was waving back and forth across the water’s surface and my heart started to race.

I pointed it out to my Dad and asked him what he thought it was. He initially wasn’t sure and we watched as it rapidly headed straight for us. Within a minute or so we both realised exactly what was heading our way and fear immediately crept in. Dad (who knew I was petrified of snakes) calmly said, “Don’t panic but that’s a snake”. “A WHAT” I said?! “It’s a snake and it’s heading straight for us”. “Oh my goodness! Get me out of this boat” I said to Dad. Too late… no sooner had I said it that the snake was within casting distance.

I was trapped! My heart was thumping and panic was setting in. But Dad was calm and explained the snake was heading to the bank just behind us and would likely swim right past us. No chance! The poor thing got confused, thought that our boat was the bank and tried to get in it! Gosh – they can move!

The snake swimmingThe snake swimming
The snake swimming
Gently netted for a closer lookGently netted for a closer look
Gently netted for a closer look

I was beside myself at this point but, in a strange way felt quite intrigued by the little fellow. Dad carefully scooped what turned out to be a female adder into his boat net for us to have a look at. She wriggled around and we had a good look at her. My panic began to reduce as we admired her distinct zig-zag pattern. She’d be no longer than 60 centimetres and what a swim she’d had!

After a couple of minutes of admiring her, I took a few photos still shocked that it had happened and we carefully slipped her back via the other side of the boat closest to the bank to continue her journey.

Dad was amazed to have seen her too – in all his 50 years fishing Sweethope he’d never seen anything like it and proceeded to tell me all about adders, that they’re the UK’s only venomous snake and live in woodlands and heathland – this made Sweethope the perfect living quarters!

I later researched adders and found out that it’s very rare for them to swim across water, so we were very lucky to have seen her that day. I’ve never seen an adder swim again and I don’t know anyone else who has.

It’s safe to say, you just never know what wildlife you’ll see when out fishing… and how lucky were we to see such a rare occurrence!

JOSH BUNNING – SALES ADVISOR, SPORTFISH

Some of you will know Hay-on-Wye as the famous market and literature town, full of aged antique stalls and book shops, small hipster cafes and pubs, but to me, it’s home. Surrounded by the Black Mountains that stretch across Wales and only a stone's throw away from the River Wye, it’s the perfect playground for any nature loving, river fishing, country bumpkin like myself. I must admit, I’m not the biggest fan of literature, and I don’t have the patience to sit quietly and read a book, but I do have the patience to stand in the river and fish from sunrise to sunset for any of the popular species that we’re lucky to have in our system (literature folk, please let me off)! 

A view of the black mountains looking over Hay-On-WyeA view of the black mountains looking over Hay-On-Wye
The Black Mountains that watch over Hay-on-Wye, taken by my good friend and local photographer Andrew Barrell

I'm rather new to the fishing world. I didn't pick up a fly rod until I was 17 years old, which is later than most, but ever since that first catch, I've been seriously hooked. The feeling is hard to explain. It’s almost primal. There are dozens of studies about the physical and psychological benefits of fishing, and I wish more people would give it a try. It’s incredibly beneficial for the mind and soul, and with the stress of modern-day life, I think we could all benefit from putting our mobile phones down, stepping away from the computer screens, and just enjoy being in the moment. Fishing is a version of meditation that I never knew existed. 

One of my most cherished memories in my fishing career occurred while I was fly fishing on the Wye this year. I'll never forget the excitement and pure panic of catching my first salmon. I set the bar high with a 21lb fresh fish… it might take me a while to top that personal best!! A few months later, I was thrilled to land a stunning River Wye barbel weighing over 6lb. I’m on the hunt for a double-figure barbel, which I’m sure will happen one day, but for now, I’m happy to enjoy the journey.

There’s an individual moment that I think of when connecting both nature and fly fishing together. Llyn Clywedog Reservoir, Llanidloes, Wales, is home to the breeding osprey during their migration from south to north. Osprey usually have pit stops near large water sources due to an abundance of fish, as that’s what they eat 99% of the time. I was fishing on the boats a couple of years back, and I had the pleasure of watching an osprey circle the skies in the hunt for a rainbow trout for its dinner. It was fascinating, as we were both on the hunt for the same thing, but in very different ways. It was nice to see a couple of failed attempts. I thought maybe it was only I who blanked, but I’m sure their catch rate is much higher than mine nonetheless. 


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WATCH: A passion for angling and nature

Angling Trust’s Jamie Cook spent a summer’s day by the water with fishing legend Chris Yates and Bafta award winning film maker Hugh Miles, creator of Passion for Angling and Catching the Impossible. He learns why fishing – and nature – has been so important to them both and they talk intimately about the past and the future.

2024-10-14 12:02:00
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