It sounds like a limp excuse but I’ve been trying to wrestle with technology and learn how to make my text flow around little photgraphs in my blog postings, and no matter how carefully I follow the instructions on the Wordpress site, it wont bastard-well work; so I throw a hissy fit and say “Sod you then! See if I care!” and pootle off instead to do a spot of work or go to sleep. Anyhow, uploading some photos this morning I realised that if I am serious about maintianing the site, then I need to discipline myself a little more and instead of having creativity inspired tantrums, perhaps lower my sights and just write… and stick the pictures in as best I can.

A Honddu McNab
My first exploits of any consequence were on a lovely little beat of the river Honddu, newly discovered for the start of this season, but of secret location for the now… sorry. Despite a chill easterly breeze whipping through the valley, the river course was sheltered and calm, so fishing proceded in relative comfort. The Honddu is a strange little river, sometimes as desolate as the Black Mountain that flanks the northerly edge of its valley, yet on other occasions teeming with life like a tropical reef. The first 400 yds of fishing displayed the Honddu at its most generous, twelve fish including a deliciously svelt looking grayling of 13″, a gorgeous wild brown of 14″ which escaped the hand before the shutter could do its work, and…. and… a clonking great rainbow trout of… ooh, around two and half pounds!!! You can imagine my disappointment/exhilaration… on a 7ft 3wt. On telling Wicked Uncle Patrick the tale, “A Honddu McNab eh!” he exclaimed.

So here is the challenge guys… photographic evidence of a Honddu McNab: Grayling, Brown and Rainbow, in one day, and to provide a little challenge… the same beat, heh heh heh, will garner you two dozen flies from my Monnow Favourites selection. Who is up for it? Or is it too tough…

Okay, so it’s not night time yet; in fact it’s only early afternoon, but today is one of those occasions when you can, as David Coleman might have said, “Literally cut the tension with a knife”.

Not that days like that are uncommon in a household with a demanding family and a wife whose idea of being supportive of my obsession with fly fishing is to say “Well you went earlier in the year didn’t you?” No, todays tension is all of my own creation, and I’m revelling in it. You see March 3rd is opening day for brown trout in these parts and therefore all of my faculties and my vital life processes are focussed on this occasion.

The forecast from Metcheck has been followed throughout the week with the angst and anticipation more usually reserved for following English cricket teams touring the southern hemisphere. You know that it is almost certain to end in bitter disappointment, but then come moments which offer glimmers of hope and your whole demeanour changes, fists are subtley clenched, you smile at people you love and you allow yourself to believe. Thus relaxed you are so very vulnerable, and just as Australian bowlers are apt to turn the most promising of English innings into abject failure, so the weathermen wait their turn to visit the same outcome on the innocent fisherman.

But thinking positively is all important. The rods have been cleaned and then stared at on the kitchen table, often from a low crouching position, as if one were inspecting a spirit level. The reel has been polished lovingly then stripped of it’s line and then rewound at least three times; and the line itself scoured, scraped and coated in every available domestic cleaning product that might just enhance it’s floatbility and slickness. All this, serves in the imbecile mind of the frustrated fisherman - mine - as the preparatory ritual for that first cast of the new season. That purest of moments when in the tree diffused light of a mid morning sun, muscle, sinew and synapse combine in poetic synergy. Arcane physical law fused perfectly with the artist’s intent as a line is painted out across the river to float a delicate little dry within the gaze of a beautiful spring trout, lying just where fate decreed it so. Oh God! Please let it be so.

Of course you have doubts… the lovingly cleaned line and reel combination are likely to flash across the water with the lethal brilliance of the Obi Wan’s light sabre, dispersing trout and blinding onlookers. You knew this when you were polishing them this morning yet still you carried on; carried on buffing and enjoyed it, felt it to be worthwhile, which it was. You now suspect the folly of such action. The fly line too… stripped and cleansed it may be, but will it float and cast any better? In fact, will it be safe to cast on the water at all? Impregnated as it now is with countless household chemicals, or will it merely serve as some kind of highly toxic flagellant, delivering poisoned, painful death to all trout luckless enough to remain within thrashing distance after the light sabre has passed within their midst.

Perhaps too many doubts? But doubt is our friend! Fly fishing is a festival of uncertainty where the greatest prize is won by those who least expect it, the most heartfelt satisfaction felt where hope seemed dimmest. Tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow!

So then, an unexpected opportunity, granted from that most unexpected source of bounty; and with nearly two months since my last trip to the river, my fingers fair trembled in anticipation.

Sometimes, however, anticipation can be the enemy of the angler, building optimism where perhaps on this occasion only gratitude ought to exist. Climbing away from Ross, the Monnow Valley was shrouded in dank, miserable, grey, sponge like clouds. The river, whilst lower and clearer than for weeks was still hurtling along like a goods train through a country station and the scars of the recent spate everywhere to be seen: Enormous dune like deposits of silt, pristine except for the occasional scratch marks of bird tracks; grassy banks with every blade combed flat by the weight of the water; and those tell tale rag-tag birds nest rafts of twiggy crap in places where no self-respecting bird would think of building.

I had come prepared though, two rods tackled up, one for a spot of bugging, the other my standard NZ/Duo set up… and in retrospect that I think, was my first mistake. I hadn’t anticipated just how differently the river would be behaving, or what the consequences for the fishing would be. Water that I had come prepared to bug, was a rushing torrent, and those nice tight narrow food lanes that I like to search with the duo were more like six-lane-motorways, where would the fish be? Too many questions in my mind and no obvious solutions other than to chuck the flies in the water and give it a try.

The CZ rig was first up and two nice fish came to hand fairly quickly, a nice trout and a good grayling. I struggled though, just two odd fish where in my minds eye there were plenty more, detecting takes wasn’t easy - or maybe it was but there weren’t many fish feeding - who knows. Downstream of the bridge pool the water is normally 15″ deep and still as plate glass. Today, deeper and with a hint of chop and riffle it looked perfect water for the single nymph below a dry. Here though it was a question of thinking where the fish might be. Under the banks seemed to be as good a place as any to start and first cast produced a lovely silver lady of 13/14″ or so but the rest of the stretch: diddly squat. Why? What was the difference between that first cast and those subsequent? Could it just be coincidence that I put my first cast where the one solitary feeding fish in the stretch had taken station? It would seem unlikely… wouldn’t it? Other spots mirrored the above experience, the odd fish or pull but never with that “I’m in amongst ‘em” feeling that I felt sure would come eventually. But it never did and I finished with a total of six fish in an afternoons fishing and only a handful of missed takes. Not bad but not what I’d anticipated or expected. It was a day for reflection and questions, but the trouble with this line of questioning is that the answer lies in experience. You have to submit yourself to this kind of lottery now and again I think; today the river was still in convalescence and a few days short of ideal conditions. The fish too, are still rebuilding their confidence, tucked safely out of the main currents in the bankside avenues or hard on the bottom where I hadn’t been scientific enough in my approach to reach them consistently.

Still as Rob pointed out over a hastily arranged pint in The Bridge Inn afterwards: “You got out fishing and you caught some fish” Nuff said I think!

Here’s one memory of the session:

Driving down through the Herefordshre borders, ditches filled with swirling torrents of terracotta sluice and the occasional flood warning by road side culverts, all seemed to frank my own assessment of my friends short term weather forecasting abilites. However, the first sign that all may not be lost was provided by the River Wye at Ross, high and fast? Yes! Coloured? Well… just a hint of stewed tea. Hmmm. The next little indicator is the River Dore at Pontrillas, a lowland stream in character and a water which carries more than its fair share of silt, if you can see the bottom in the Dore, the Monnow will be clear as well and if you cant, well that’s nothing new! Thankfully, that river is clear(ish) also.

Things are looking up indeed, so much so that a little more weight on the accelerator is called for. The hill slopes that bank the eastern edge of the A465 pass by in a breakfast flake mosiac of faded ambers and toasted browns; whilst to the west, the soft Novemeber sun works its alchemy on the bracken clad flanks of The Black Mountain. Spirits are rising!
So what about the river? Crossing the old stone bridge over the Honddu at Pandy it is evident that conditions are unexectedly perfect. The water is a little high but on the drop, clear enough to see the bottom yet with just enough colour to offer the angler a little protection. A day full of promise.

Some promises are made to be kept aren’t they? As I’m tackling up for my club water, I am invited to fish another beat of the river. Very, very lightly fished and apart from a half hearted effort with a friend who had more than one eye on the pub clock - pretty much unexplored by me.

The first two casts remind me that some trout are active. One of six inches the other twelve. Wandering up the beat for the next couple of hours shows the stretch to be one of the most stunning beats on the upper Monnow I have fished. Over a dozen fish to hand, browns to 14″ and grayling to 12″ with plenty more missed or pricked.

The thought of having a prime bit if unfished, upper monnow to myself is almost too much to cope with, and here’s why:

and here’s another glassy run, chock full with feisty grayling and big wild trout that haven’t heard that it’s time for the winter game yet.

Quite unsurpassable fishing; at least until the next visit…

A day spent in the garden, picking plums and turning over the beds in readiness for the tulip planting had got me feeling quite autumnal; and for that reason I was drawn to Pandy. I just wanted to be there to witness the late afternoon September sunlight bathe the Black Mountain and ignite warm harvest embers acrossthe valley below. I wasn’t disappointed.

Arrived at Trewyn Mill about fiveish and parked up. Both the Honddu and Monnow are very low and clear and the fish will see you long before you even think there are none there! So the utmost care is needed. This is the time to sit, watch and wait; not for long - just for long enough, as even in the shallowest runs good fish were showing, tempting you, daring you to dive in. But this is FA Cup fishing rather than Champions League - one crap cast and you’re out of the equation, no return fixture, and no prize for a great second effort. The 7ft Esse and 3wt Partridge Dry and Delicate were teamed up with about 10ft of leader down to 2lb and on the end, one of Alan Bithell’s delightful little grey no. 18 klinks.

As I worked my way patiently up the Honddu I rose and hooked several fish but could bring none to hand, which was a great pity as there were some good ones amongst them! To be honest though, the real pleasure of fishing here is to find the good fish in this tiny little river and watch them rise, wondering if they’ll come to you, and if they do, it’s almost the same feeling you get if a beautiful woman, one you’ve being eyeing up “subtly”, meets your gaze across the room with a smile, at least I imagine so. And if you miss the take… well at least you gave them something to think about. As with beautiful women though, frustration sets in after a few “ooh nearly!” moments. A change of tac is in order and maybe a bigger fly, the logic being that a bigger hook will prove more difficult to spit. Out comes the Elk & CDC, size 14 in natural elkhair and canary CDC, and beautifully tied by Phil Holding. Again, I’m still missing and hooking fish, maybe its just me? Of course it is! Eventually I fish a run just below the campsite bridge where having missed and connected with four fish, one trout takes pity on me and just hammers the fly. You cant describle the beauty and thrill of this fight. The trout cavorts and splashes showering jewelled beads of water in the sunlight, leaping and diving for the roots before coming to hand.

I wander back downstream, looking at my watch and clenching my fist in satisfaction, still another half an hour (or so) before packing up time. I catch a couple more smaller fish before returning to a lovely pool which I bollocksed up earlier by putting my first cast into the alder when the pool was pockmarked with rising fish. At first glance the pool looks silent but a slurp of port from the flask is punctuated by splishing rise under the alder bough. First cast and my sedge drifts down towards the zone where it is literally engulfed by a very hungry trout. Fantastic stuff! I love it when the fish rise like that, not because they are easy to hit, but because its clear that they are just completely relaxed and happy in their environment, confident, kings of their domain and all that, and to fool one into such a take isimmensely exciting. The culprit is landed - a lovely dark 13″ fish, deep and muscular. God I love this place.

Another glance at the watch and time for a last cast, below the Monnow bridge at the Altyrynnis where a good fish is rising. Again, first cast and a smash take. But this time the fly comes flying back in my face after a brief and brutal flurry. The tangle on the end of my line and the distrubance to the water means that I’m out of The Cup…till the next time!