This past December was one of the wettest on record, we had water leaking through the mortar of the chimney breast and spreading chill damp patches on the walls of the loft space. The Wye had been in full flood, breaching its banks in a few spots only days ago. But after three or four dry days the waters had dropped significantly and cleared to the point that the gravel on the bottom was clearly visible. Thoughts started to turn towards perhaps trying fishing.
I had a brand new Vision Nymphmaniac rod sitting unused in the corner of the conservatory and was hankering to give it a swing. The only trouble was that the temperatures dropped as fast as had the river, and the morning, although dawning clear, showed frost on all the trees and layers of ice on the poor and chilly Jimny sitting outside the cottage. Actually even thinking of going fishing seemed to be some form of madness.
Should I head out? The lounge was distinctly cosy, the embers of last night’s smelter grade wood fire still throwing out heat into the room and simply checking the thermometer on the outside windowsill was enough to have me scurrying back inside. It was below zero, the neighbour’s waterfilled bucket was frozen solid and despite the temptations I was struggling to motivate myself to head out and stand in a freezing river. Not least because I have never really attempted any proper winter grayling fishing, so didn’t have too much of a clue as to what to expect.
It didn’t help much that the day’s “high” according to the weather forecast was 2 degrees, and what little sun that had been showing through the high clouds was waning as I pontificated.
In the end I gathered up pretty much all the warm clothing I could find: fleece lined thermal leggings, Helly Hansen thermal shirt, polo neck, Cotton Traders fleece, fleece lined jacket and of course the all important Beenie to cover my head and ears. I felt rather like “The Michelin Man”, and with all this clobber on decided to carry relatively little in my fishing vest. A couple of boxes of flies, some spare tippet and my faithful lanyard holding various essential tools, nippers and the like. After excessive eating and drinking over the festive season I was already likely a tad more corpulent than I would prefer, and with all this clothing on I did wonder if I would be able to squeeze behind the steering wheel of the Suzuki.
By this point I was pretty much backed into a corner, but figured that I might easily quit if the going got too tough, it isn’t a long drive to the river.
At least by the time I headed out the ice had cleared from the Jimny’s windscreen, and I didn’t have to start the excursion with frozen fingers as a result of scraping ice.
At the river I tackled up by the car, and was quietly convincing myself that it wasn’t really that cold, I did manage to tie up the required knots without losing all feeling in my fingers and a brisk march across the slightly crunchy fields warmed me up a tad.
Then the wind started to pick up, at first just a light breeze, but enough to make control of the flies tricky and putting an upstream bow in the sighter which would make detecting takes, should I get any, rather problematic. But I had decided that I was going to give it a go and stuck to my guns.
I tried several spots where I could gain reasonable and safe access to the water, I certainly didn’t want to take a swim, so stuck with areas I had fished previously and where I was unlikely to encounter anunexpected drop off.
That bitter Easterly wind picked up over the course of time and even adding more weight to the flies wasn’t really enough to gain back control. I had been at it for two hours now and was more comfortable that I had imagined I would be. But then the line went tight and I hooked into a nice fish. It turned out to be an out of season wild brownie, in remarkably good nick give the recent conditions on the river, but I was well pleased to have enjoyed some modicum of success.
Plans to film its release with the GoPro were put on hold, because the camera, which had been fully charged on my departure, was now refusing to even start up. It seems that this is something of a problem with them, and they don’t like to be out in sub zero temperatures. So fiddling through layers and layers of clothing I managed to extricate my phone to take a quick snap and release the brownie back into the freezing river.
With that of course I got my hands wet and that bitter breeze decided that now was the time to turn the screws and within seconds my extremities went from comfortable to numb, rapidly progressing to severe pain. It was time to head back to the car. Getting my hands into my pockets and out of the breeze improved things immensely and by the time I had returned to my vehicle feeling was returning and I was able to dismantle the tackle without too much trouble, only to realise that my cap was missing. So I headed back the way I had come, over the slightly thawed and muddy fields, relocated my missing headgear and found that I had warmed up to the point of relative comfort once more. I could have been tempted to give things another go had I not already dismantled the rod. Probably just as well, one really should know to quit when one is ahead.
I hadn’t expected to catch much on my first true winter foray and was more than pleased that I didn’t blank. The cell phone image of a pretty brownie sufficient proof of the pudding and enough, no doubt, to motivate me to try again next time the weather is clear and dry.
I think though, that I might take more cognisance of the wind next time, and if all goes well, I may find a still day, preferably with hints of weak winter sunshine. But I have my wardrobe pretty much sorted and know now more of what to expect during these extreme conditions. No doubt there are many anglers who endure far worse, but you need to bear in mind that most of my fishing over the past three decades has required little more than a T shirt, shorts and some sunblock, fishing in sub zero conditions comes as something of a shock to the system
The Fishing Gene 