TROUT & SALMON

The voice of game-fishing since 1955

YESTERDAY, IT WAS MY CLUB’S GRAYLING day, or should I say morning? Held from nine-’til-noon, competitors are given little time to find a grayling on our limestone stream, where the fish only ever make an occasional appearance. The prizegiving is held at a local pub, timed to coincide with first orders, so I thought I would give it a crack. I joined a dozen others who, given that the river was rising and the colour of a malted milk biscuit, were sceptical of their chances.

Off we went on our merry way. On a normal day, we would not have bothered, but while fishing with a fly seemed futile, we were at least on the river, entering into the spirit of things.

However, each time my bugs rolled past unnoticed, the more attractive a lunchtime pint became. I caught small sticks, large sticks and then willow boughs, until two hours later I snagged the bottom and the two pinky-red shrimpy things I had tied for the occasion parted company. I did not even get a chance to try Fred Bainbridge’s clever adjustable dropper (p58) which I had diligently prepared the night before — the water was simply too high. So, I packed up early and watched a fellow member, Martin, trot red maggots down the same run I had just scoured.

Trevor, the organiser, had been forewarned of the conditions and allowed trotting. Had I not lost the tip ring on my only float rod 30 years ago, it would have been my preferred method. Instead, I watched Martin, and aft