John Shakespeare recalls an incident on Lake Vyrnwy
THE WEATHER FORECAST for the weekend looked a bit doubtful, but we decided we’d try for half a day’s fishing at Lake Vyrnwy. I picked up my brother, Rodney, at noon and we discussed our tactics and fishing location on the journey. Was it to be Whitegates or the dam? Dry or wet? Sinking or floating? Such difficult choices, discussed in full on every visit. We arrived at the lake at 1pm and on first sight of the water level and conditions, all our questions were answered — dam end and floating. Hurriedly and with all the anticipation of eager anglers, we booked in at the hotel, loaded boat No.1 and set adrift.
The wind was not going to give up, but try as it might, it did not succeed in blowing us over the dam. After four hours of thrashing the water, fighting the wind and catching absolutely nothing, we reassessed our position over a sandwich and a cup of coffee. The decision was made to unload the boat and head up to Whitegates. This was based on our theory that, if the water is low, then the fish must be closer to the top and our floating-line tactics should work.
After a record-breaking unloading, moving and reloading into boat No.7, we again set adrift, only to run aground in our haste to fish the river channel of Rhiwargor (top end of the lake at Whitegates). Calm was kept with another cup of coffee and some depth calls from my brother at the bow — something about Mark Twain as I recall? Moving back to deeper water, we came across some rising fish and within 20 yards had caught our first fish of the day. The tension increased as more and more fish came to the surface and yet again, we were in. Frantically, I unhooked my fish and released it back into the water. After checking the condition of my fly, I cast out to another rise, when suddenly my line went slack. I looked to my right to see my brother looking at me over his glasses with what seemed like a fly in his cheek — his expression confirmed that indeed it was. Panic on my part ensued, yet my brother was being apologetic for being in the way of my cast. On close examination of the fly and after several attempts to release it with the use of pliers, I was told by my brother to cut the line free to enable him to continue fishing while the fish were still on the rise. I reluctantly agreed and left my Claret Hopper hanging from his face.
The wind had dropped away and fish were rising all around, nymphing just under the surface. We gave chase to the more regular rises but to no avail. At 8.30pm, we left the water. Back at the hotel, I was keen to keep my brother out of view; I unloaded and signed off the water. The normal practice of stopping for fish and chips at Llanfyllin became a concern, but I got
