Misc

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I cleaned out my fishing box this afternoon. It’s a large white Ikea-esque plastic job. I use it as a bin, chucking all potentially-needed gear into it before transfer into the boot of the car. It’s like a travelling fishing wardrobe. Waders, chest pack, spare spools, fly boxes, partially decayed bananas. I’ve found some fascinating biology in it over the years, at all stages from off-fresh to genetically-evolved beyond all comprehension.

Removing the large items from around the box I found a fine layer of various detritus and dust on the bottom. And there in one corner was an upwing spinner, decayed as far as to leave just a paper-thin body shell. Heaven knows during which season it came to find itself there. It might have been an olive upright, but I wasn’t sure. Feeling that warm and slightly intangible connection to the river one still feels when not actually there, I dug out the camera and photographed. I then picked it up, examined it closely, and gave it a gentle tap. It disintigrated into tiny pieces, joining the rest of the dust and detritus in the bottom of the box. I wondered how it had managed to stay in one piece for so long, hidden away from all the random junk that lives in there.

I couldn’t help consider how long it would take for the rest of the box’s contents to reach a similar state of decay, poised between form and dust. Let’s hope at least the shiny aluminium reel has a few years left.

Competing interests

Competing interests in the countryside is not a new phenomenon. But I couldn’t help bring attention to this short piece by the BBC which covers a part of the world dear to me and plenty of other anglers in central-southern Scotland. The John Muir Trust (good people, see the link on the left) are looking to secure the ecological future of the Talla and Gameshope estate (there’s a nice PDF at that link) at the upper end of the River Tweed. As usual, interests from landowners, farmers, would-be windfarm developers and envorinmentalists do battle.

Watch the short piece here.

First dusting…

…of the year. Wind chill must have been -10C on top of Caerketton Hill.

Stormy weather

Here, birdie birdie

Fun times…

Well I never…

… thought I’d see this day. From the BBC:

Coastal farm ban urged to protect wild fish stocks

and:

Fish farm and lice link tricky, says Marine Scotland

In the first of a new season of intermittent posts, and in a shameless attempt to boost ratings (and further put off writing my own posts), it’s time to welcome my (new) other half to the Tamanawis pages. Who knows where this will lead, but we’re going to start with a crucial tool required by every fisherman’s partner, the fishing glossary. I leave the following largely unedited, though reserve the right to leave chauvinistic comments in italics..

Thoughts of a fly fisherman’s wife: Part I, The Fishing Glossary (by The FFW)

A little background

I decided to contribute to this blog for two different reasons. Firstly, I have been Mike Tamanawis’s wife for a couple of weeks now which indeed makes me a Fly Fisherman’s wife (excellent use of capitalisation), and as I have fished a couple of times I am qualified to make some comments. And secondly…

Last week during our honeymoon/fly fishing trip to Sutherland, Mike was fishing in the sea when a fisherman came to speak to me.

“What is he fishing with?”
“Well, at the beginning he used a dry fly as the fish were feeding at the surface, but as the activity was slowing down on the surface he decided to use a wet fly. We will see what happens.”

I still don’t know who was the most surprised, the fisherman, the fish or me. I just thought, “oh dear I can actually speak about fly fishing, I am officially the wife of a fly fisherman”. So here is my guide to the most important terms and ideas for a fly fisherperson.

Glossary

Waders (“The Frog”). We can say from the beginning that the film “A River Runs Through It” should be banned from all girls who will eventually be with a fly fisherman, particularly if he fishes in Scotland. The romantic idea of Brad Pitt casting in the middle of a beautiful sunny day, it is not quite my experience of fly fishing….

Chest Pack (“The Fishing Bra”). Much funnier that the normal ones used by women.

Casting. The technique of moving your arm in the manner of throwing a heavy ball, while your husband says every two minutes, “Relax, gentle, use your whole arm, imagine…relax…”

Fishing. An action used to get some food. Husband’s definition is not available in less than 2000 words.

Fishing magazines. Same every month with a bit of a variation in the pictures. Husband’s point of view: serious debates about fishing every month which can not be missed just in case they actually discover that fish really do not care about the difference between flies (in fact I sometimes feel slightly closer to the wife’s perspective on this one..).

I’ve never taken a picture of a fishing magazine, so I’ve substituted in a nice grayling instead.

Fly tying. Very scary stuff. When you discover the collection of dead animals, obsessively classified in order. And all the flies in boxes which will never be used, that is actually super scary, you should know.

Boxes. Tools used to organise any kind of thing. Husband’s definition: Endless possibilities for new systems to re-organise the flies, for the 102nd time (which actually is not that important as all the flies go with him anyway every time he goes fishing, as you never know what you could find in a very small burn).

Underwater rocks. Provide hope that a fish took your fly. Husband’s perspective: Fly lost and potentially rod destroyed if you don’t react quickly enough when you see your wife fighting with a rock as she seriously thinks that she caught the biggest fish of her/your life. Beware.

Heather. A plant which most fishing flies find very attractive. Husband’s reference: Don’t leave the wife with a rod until you cut down all the nearby heather, otherwise you will not be able to fish all day as you will be retying and cutting a lot of fishing line.

Catching a fish. Wait for your husband to deal with the rod. Husband’s definition: Hold the rod high and tighten your line with the left hand. I know because he told me many times, but it’s still impossible to apply for some reason (I have no idea why, it’s an action similar to pointing upwards at an expensive item high on a shop shelf while holding a shoping bag in the other hand).

Tree-lined rivers. That makes no sense, how could I cast? You must be joking.


Fishing without a frog in April. A bit silly.

Fishing during winter. Complete silliness (again, hard to argue really..).

Practicing casting on the grass. Serious insanity.

Marrying a fly fisherman. You should be madder than the fisherman (does help, and in this case might be true..).

– The End (not definitive or complete, and may be expanded).

Australis

Well worth 25 seconds of your time..

Time lapse of the aurora australis from the ISS.

The beginning of the end of the season..

Waves

It’s vaguely fish related, but certainly worth a watch for UK residents…

The Secret Life of Waves.

Intermission..

Evening light time lapse over the Pentland Hills, Scotland from Mike Tamanawis on Vimeo.

Sunset across the Forth Valley from Allermuir Hill, Scotland from Mike Tamanawis on Vimeo.

The right moment…

…by luck rather than judgment.

Salmon farms..

Interesting news article this morning on the front page of the BBC Scotland website. Conservationists and environmental campaigners seem to have struggled of late to get much publicity on this issue, so it’s good to see the other side of the salmon farm debate get some airtime.

This evening..

Evening clouds over Edinburgh, Scotland from Mike Tamanawis on Vimeo.

Worth a quick look

Don’t know who it’s by, but it’s cool..

Interesting article this morning on the BBC website.

Foolhardy

Not sure exactly why, but I’ve just registered for my first hill race. It’s the (reasonably famous) Carnethy 5 here in the Pentland hills. Perhaps it’s a last desperate attempt to feel like I’ve achieved something in my 20s, or perhaps it’s just to see how far away from ‘fit’ I really am. Whatever the case, come February 12th, it’s going to be carnage….

More winter fun

From what I hear there have been frozen rivers and floods all over the place so far this winter. So for the moment I’m sticking to high places.

More white stuff

…on the way. This was two weeks past.

We interrupt the current spate of news items (including but not limited to, Wikileaks leaking, snowy winter, forgetful coalition partners etc..) to bring readers’ attention to a truly important piece of news.

Glasgow wins title of Curry Capital of Britain.

When the rivers freeze over…

…it’s time for forks and tooth picks.

A light dusting

…sort of.

Shrinking fish (in the winter)

Shrinking fish

The oldest organisms in the world

The oldest organisms in the world.

Autumn comes…

…and with it streams flow a little colder and faster.

Found via the Scottish Fly Fishing blog..

The Cobbler and His Mist

Took a small stroll up to the Cobbler at the weekend. He really is a belting hill, full of misty intrigue in the right (wrong?) conditions. Towers of rock seem to leer out of the swirling cleg. It’s all-encompassing, fascinating, a true hill-personalty.

Why the beast?

He’s not pleased.

The haaf netters

If you’ve got a spare moment, there’s a lovely multimedia presentation on haaf netting in the Solway by Ciara Leeming. A beautifully photographed and recorded piece of work.

Pentlands by twilight

A beautiful evening yesterday, after a day with 12 hours of sunshine, the first for quite some weeks. So good in fact that I tottered up along the Pentland ridge for some minutes and ported the wee camera too.

Red sky


What a beautiful view a couple of nights ago as I glanced out the window at 10pm. Best guess I can come up with is a lenticular cloud. I’ve seen lots of these clouds in photos by Galen Rowell, most commonly associated with mountain areas. There are mountains not too far from here I suppose, but whatever caused it I’m glad it did. Perhaps it’s time to call in the cloud busters, aka The Cloud Appreciation Society..

Well I finally got around to ordering Bruce Sandison’s essential guide to the rivers and lochs of Scotland. It arrived this morning and it certainly looks like a very handsome refresh of the last edition, complete with a smattering of nice pictures and updated/new details for many waters.

My opinion (which many others seem to share) is that it’s basically essential for anyone fishing in Scotland, be it regularly as I do, or for a holiday. I bought it direct from Bruce, which meant he kindly signed it with a short quotation from Norman MacCaig as I requested. More details over on the (excellent) Wild Fishing Scotland web forum. If you prefer Amazon, it’s for sale here as well.

My favourite comment about the (original) book comes from Bruce’s son, who called it “the finest work of angling fiction ever written”. All in good humour, of course.

Spring cleaning.. sort of

I’ve been meaning to ‘upgrade’ my fishing/general pottering camera for a wee while. After much research I’ve now got a lovely Canon S90 to replace the Fuji F10 I’ve been carrying around for the past 4 years.

First impressions are outstanding. It’s low light capabilities in particular are a good stride away from what I’ve grown used to in a compact camera (the sensor is great, but even better is the f/2 lens). Only thing left to do now is replace my aging (and leaking) waterproof camera bag to protect it from inevitable dunkings.. For some bizzare reason though, the best looking one I’ve found, the Simms Dry Creek, doesn’t include a shoulder/neck strap.

If any reader has come across a well-padded, small and waterproof camera case I’d much appreciate hearing from you.

Another one for those with access to BBC iPlayer, and a really nice one this time. Cameron McNeish visits the far North West of Scotland, climbing hills and fishing lochs with none other than the great Bruce Sandison.

Click here to view the program, or download it.

Book of the week (Radio 4)

This week’s book of the week on Radio 4 is a serialisation of Luke Jennings’ writings on a lifetime of fishing. Today it’s about fly fishing. A very enjoyable listen, you can catch up on all episodes by clicking here.

3 bits of rock

For the rest of this week there’s a beautiful sight to be seen in the western sky at dusk. A heavenly triad of a waxing moon, the bright planet Venus, and the more rarely seen planet Mercury. I’ve only been able to spot Mercury using binoculars. Here’s a photo, in case it helps anyone who’s interested. Can you spot which is which? Click the picture and you’ll see my highly swish overlay to guide your attention.

As a true space geek I’ve been keeping track of the planets with the amazing (free) Stellarium planetarium software. If you are at all interested by space and the night sky it’s a must.

I can’t help but feel excited by seeing a planet like Mercury, almost hidden in the orange afterglow of sunset. Perhaps it’s the fact that without looking, you’d never know it was there.

It’s not fishing as we know it, but it does involve standing around looking at the sky (which just about sums up my fishing so far this season).

Baldness is good for you!

It’s been a long while with no good posts. A new job and busier life are making blog time extremely limited. However, I spotted this and couldn’t resist posting it up.

“Baldness ‘could be good for your health’ say scientists”, from the BBC website…

Slightly reassuring for those of us feeling light headed in the non-alcoholly way.

Glen Coe

The new fishing season opens in less than 2 weeks on some rivers. It’s hard to image it at the moment though. Snow lying just outside the towns, with metres of it in the highlands. Somehow the thought of wading through icy spring water in driving drizzle seems less attractive at the moment that I thought it would at the end of last season.

So my attention has been drawn back to making pictures and dreaming of a warm summer evening rise.

Glen Coe is quite possibly the most (over) photographed region of Scotland outside of Edinburgh’s Old Town. The sight of the great Buachaille Etive Mor greets everyone who passes by the Glen on the way to Fort William and beyond. She really is a magnificent mountain, endlessly photogenic and wonderfully poised facing onto Rannoch Moor. Last Sunday I spent a couple of chilly hours in her company, blessedly alone, admiring the blue glow of winter sunset and trying to avoid getting stuck up to my waist in the snow drifts.

Back online

Been offline for quite a few weeks.. But we still seem to be gripped by cold weather, with snow on the hills and icy breaths. The best solution?

Pie.

The worst river pollution incident ever seen in Perthsire, that’s what. From the BBC, read about it here.

Martian landscapes..

Amazing photos of mars from the Boston Globe Big Picture Blog.

The Secret Life of Chaos

For UK users only (or those with better computer hacking skills than I possess), comes another truly outstanding science program from the BBC. The Secret Life of Chaos. Available on iPlayer until this Sunday the 24th (perhaps longer if you download it), it really is worth watching. Jim Al-Khalili is an excellent communicator, and the program has been superbly put together. If you don’t know anything about chaos (I didn’t know much..), it’s a must.

Snow joke

I can’t seem to get enough of these snowy stories. Is anybody bored by all the snow? Hardship and tragedy aside, I have to say I love the stuff, it’s great to have a proper winter. And just to cap things off, Aviemore has had to close its ski centre because….wait for it… there’s too much snow. Too much. Aparently there are 5 metre drifts over the roads near the centre. Not 5 feet, 5 metres of drifting snow. As someone who’s watched ever warmer winters develop over the last 15 years, it really is enough to warm the cockles. Or is that cool the cockles?

In case you haven’t seen it, there’s an outstanding NASA image of the UK covered in snow available from their Earth Observatory image of the day page. There a big version available for download. Other versions available here.

Snow glorious snow

I don’t know how many metres of snow we’ve had in the east of Scotland this year, but it’s probably about as much as the last decade rolled into one. I’ve seen drifts deeper than my waist in the local hills, something I’ve never before known since living up here. Whilst it’s a pain for some (getting to work is interesting), it is also incredibly beautiful when combined with glorious winter light.

Illusions

I don’t often post useless non-fishing-related nonsense on Tamanawis (read that carefully), but I couldn’t resist this amazing wee link. Discovered via the always interesting Astronomy Picture of the Day at NASA (see the Wiki here as well), comes the fascinating research of the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences at MIT.

same_color_illusion

Check out their page of optical illusions here (you’ll need to allow popups). I particularly like the Koffka Ring illusion..

I’m currently reading a book called Fishing in Wild Places, by David Street. It’s a collection of 12 essays based around fishing, gathered together from a lifetime of fly angling and writing. Although I’m only part of the way through it, I thought it nice to give an advance mention of the upcoming review by quoting one of my favourite passages so far.

It comes from chapter 5, where he embarks on a two week expedition to fish for sea-trout in the windswept Faroe islands of the north Atlantic.

It was then that I had a take from something more like what I was looking for, and after a strenuous contest I netted a fine sea-trout of 3lb to the Bloody Butcher. Perseverence was rewarded, and my first Faroese sea-trout came against all the odds; a fisherman is sustained in the knowledge that the unexpected is only a few casts away. Let him believe this and he will endure almost anything.

The world of fly fishing is a world of many-a-cliche, and that of there being more to fishing than fish is perhaps the oldest of all. I’ve trotted out the line “there weren’t many fish caught, but there were a lot of nice clouds and wildlife to see instead” on more occasions than I’d care to admit, and that includes on these pages (funnily enough, there’s a remarkable correlation between such phrases and my trips out for grayling…).

birds

Despite the snide remarks of non-angling (and even angling come to mention it) pals, I stand by my comments as genuine. If the only reason I went fishing was to hook a trout and then slip it back, I suspect my interest might not have remained at such a fever pitch for such a long time. The act of fooling a spring trout on a dry is of course one of life’s finest pleasures, and one that only becomes more appreciated with time. But the brutal fact is that, at least on the rivers where I fish, it’s impossible to ever be sure of finding rising fish.

bug

Over the seasons I have found a plethora of streamside distractions to occupy my mind when it inevitably wanders from matters aquatic. I always carry a camera, and it often features heavily during quiet moments. Searching out wee beasties to photograph is great fun, and a lovely way to learn about river ecology. Last year I even took up the harmonica, and found that riversides were an ideal place to practice, being as they often are in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing like the sense of freedom to wail provided by tall trees, waving grasses and no people.

bird

One of the best things about fishing is the quiet moments, where sitting beside a gurgling run one has the space to really breathe. I often spend an hour or more de-robed of my fishing gear just sitting and staring into the middle distance (that almost makes it sound like I’m naked, which is not true, at least physically). Perhaps it says more about me that it does about fishing or rivers, but whatever the case I do love the way that angling gives you time to find space, both in body and in mind.

onion

I also find that my perfected middle-distance stare helps me to listen to the sounds around me in a more focussed way than if I’m actually trying to fish. I think that no-one should be allowed to pass judgment on fishing as being boring or pointless unless they’ve spent a sunny May afternoon by the side of a tree-clad riverbank, occasionally glancing around, but mostly just listening to the chorus of life. Perhaps the sight of a rising hatch, spurring on trout to the surface, should compliment such a romantic scene. Only then, when your eyes are full of the colour of the bluebell carpet under the trees, and your nose sings with the smell of wild onion, only then do I think one should be able to pronounce fishing as pointless. If you do wish to do so, you have my blessing, for perhaps I am indeed mad. But I do know of one man in possession of a hell of a lot more intelligence than I who seems to have understood something of what I’m trying to say (or perhaps it’s the other way around)..

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed. A. Einstein

book

Despite this upwelling of sentiment for the glory of the riverbank, we are coming close to the crux of the post. While I have come to love the being part of fishing a beautiful river, I realise more and more that in fact what I’ve been is little more than a city interloper, full of excitement at pastures new, and perhaps also a little full of myself. I do sometimes wonder if my dream of the river is a false and silly dream borne of crowded streets and blaring car horns. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I suppose a dream is what you make of it, and if it gets you through the day, the month or the year, weaving a little line of hope, that’s as much as you can wish for. What I can say is that all this this ho-hum, romantic posturing has spurned me on in recent weeks to engage a bit more with my surroundings when I’m out and about, and get past all the stargazing. And it starts with the trees.

book-2

Despite being an admirer of fine trees, I’m as ingnorant as nuts about what distinguishes an oak from a tree of heaven. It’s finally got to me, and I’m turning over a new leaf. My first step on the road to horticultural heaven has been to buy a wee pocket book about the most common trees in the UK. I thumbed through a load of big impressive tomes before deciding on this little gem, and for less than a fiver I’m very pleased. It’s easily small enough to take along on trips to the river and glen, and seems reasonably comprehensive if not exhaustive. Perfect for a beginner.

alder

I’ve resolved to learn at least one tree every time I’m out. Any more than that and I know I’ll forget. With my trusty camera around my neck to make records, I’m starting out on the dusty road to knowledge. I reckon it’ll make a nice wee side-chain of posts here on Tamanawis. I suppose my secret hope is that any readers out there with a similar thirst for natural knowledge might learn along with me as I make posts and pages about what I learn.

So, there is a new section to the site, called The Trees. It’s not directly part of the blog, but is rather a fixed set of pages more like a normal website. Each time I update it I’ll give a shout from here on the blog for any readers coming through Google Reader and the like. There is a permanant link to The Trees page up in the navigation bar visible on every single post and page on Tamanawis. Find it near the top of the page, just below the banner. There are already two entries, alder and beech. What can I say? Exciting stuff.

It might just be yet another distraction from fishing, but I’m actually rather enjoying my new quest for treedom. Out and about, fishing or otherwise, I’m finding a whole new world of fun as I speculate and marvel at the wonderful world of trees. One might almost say that a leaf has been turned. And at the second telling of that feeble joke in one post, it’s over and out.

Fishy stuff

From BBC online comes another story about the flagging fish farming sector. Apparently there’s going to be a whopping cash injection from the EU to stimulate a ‘stagnent’ industry. Hmm… where have I heard that before?

I find it incredible that such reporting seems to completely blank on the real problems of fish farming. It’s incredibly ironic that an article which speaks of the problems of ‘not enough fish in the sea’, completely ignores exactly what goes into producing farmed fish. Industrial scale dredging of sand eels to produce farmed salmon and trout feed is just one example. What happens a few years down the line when the sand eels have all been fished out?

The implicit tone propagated by most BBC and other media articles about fish farming is that it is a perfect solution to the problem of overfishing the oceans. How is the average person ever going to find out about the real cost?

Just around the corner, with Norman MacCaig

With the trout season just around the corner, things are looking decidedly up. On some rivers and lochs people are already out and fishing.

Personally, I tend to view the trout season as starting for real on the 1st of April. I’m busy getting flies tied, sorting out all the bits and bobs and making plans for the first day. It’s got to be the most exciting time of the year, with everything ahead and to be discovered again.

So, as a welcome to the new season, how about a bit of quality Norman MacCaig poetry to stir the blood?

Loch Sionascaig

Hard to remember how the water went
Shaking the light,
Until it shook like peas in a riddling plate.

Or how the islands snored into the wind,
Or seemed to, round
Stiff, plunging headlands that they never cleared.

Or how a trout hung high its drizzling bow
For a count of three –
Heraldic figure on a shield of spray.

Yet clear the footprint in the puddled sand
That slowly filled
And rounded out and smoothed and disappeared

From BBC online comes the scarcely believable news that fishing may soon become an option as part of the school curriculum in Scotland. Sounds incredible, slightly bizarre, but surely to be warmly welcomed. Quoted from the article:

The Scottish Qualifications Authority (SQA) is understood to be close to approving the study of topics such as game angling and river management. Pupils would learn about things like fish biology and water chemistry. The idea came from Angling for Youth Development (AFYD) – a group set up to encourage young people to take up the sport and keep them out of trouble.

trout

Image copyright BBC

The qualifications could also include topics such as the history of angling, casting techniques, water safety and angling and wildlife law. AFYD believes that good anglers need to have a knowledge of science, geology, geography and natural and social history.

Well I never, what do you say to that!? The fact that people with power over these things are choosing to recognise and highlight the genuinly positive aspects of angling is fantastic. Casting fishing as something connected to nature, with benefits for all, as opposed to something which only plunders is a great step forward.

Seriously though, can you image having distance casting lessons in third perid instead of cross-country running? Amazing thought. And what about fly tying. Some of those `art’ flies go way beyond what I ever did in art class. Definitely potential there..

A couple of years back my dad and I nipped up the road to Pitlochry to have a casting lesson with Ally Gowans. As we strolled down to the river I asked him about his general leader setup for dry fly fishing. He said that he preferred the simplest method possible, that of knotting a tapered leader to the end of his fly line. Carefully weighing up a poisoned barb, I asked him about the use of the dreaded braided loop…

knotter

It turned out that he was the newly appointed Commander in Chief of the Braided Loops Anonymous charity. This is a little known organisation that works to rehabilitate anglers unfortunate enough to have been conned by clever marketing into using braided loops on the ends of their fly lines. He was remarkably adamant about the evil of braided loops, and I could see where he was coming from.

People spend gazillions of pounds/dollars/euros on fly lines. Some of those Scientific Anglers jobs cost more than most of my fly rods. These modern fly lines are a marvel of engineering. Carefully chosen plastic composites are sheathed over intricately woven braid, and the whole thing given a precise and painstakingly researched profile. There are gazillions of profiles of course, each suited to a different condition, a certain size of fly, a nymph or a dry, night time or day time. The profiles taper with nuclear accuracy, honed from the wide diameter of the head, down through the transitional taper to the delicate little section right at the tip. It’s enough to cause my head to spin.

So there they are, ranks of beautifully constructed fly lines, many of them costing considerably more than a fine 17 year old single malt. They’re carefully attached to similarly expensive brightly-coloured backing, presumably made from Madonna’s old tights, and wound onto similarly expensive reels peddled by certain bling merchants as important for catching fish. And the pièce de résistance?  Glue a 50 pence hunk of plastic on the end.

It’s like a sous-chef taking all day to prepare a delicately flavoured bolognaise sauce, using only the freshest ripe tomatoes, the most aromatic basil and the most mature steak, and then lobbing in half a bottle of ketchup. It’s just not cricket.

So, what’s a better solution?

kilt_man

This picture has nothing to do with this post. But tell me, when was a photo of a guy wearing a kilt sporting a head digitally-substituted with a bunch of flowers not a good thing?

Well the old Wise-Man of Pitlochry uses a simple Borger knot, tying his leader straight onto the end of the fly line. This inevitably causes a slight hump from the wraps of the knot, but it’s a hell of a lot less intrusive than those braided loops.

In an earlier post I waxed lyrical about the method of gluing a leader into the end of the fly line. This is still my preferred method, and the one that unquestionably gives the smoothest transition between fly line and leader, and ultimately the smoothest turnover.

The only downside is the slight hinging effect that happens between the stiff end of the leader butt and the limp fly line. I’ve found that over the course of a few months, particularly when you’re fishing a lot, a bit of a crack can sometimes develop in the fly line at this hinge.

Personally, I can’t be bothered with trying to re-glue a hingey fly line to leader connection when I’m out on the river. Nowadays I therefore tend to adopt the Wise-Man’s approach, and use a knot.

trees

And here we come to the crux of this ramble. Whilst browsing around a year or two ago I came across a groovy nail knot tool that makes it really easy to tie a secure connection between leader and fly line. The Wise-Man disapproved of course, saying that any angler worth his salt should be able to tie knots without a tool. Again, I can see his point, but I like my damn tool. It’s small, cute and does the job very nicely. I’ve tried doing nail knots with no tools, and while it is perfectly possible, this wee tool lets me do it in a fraction of the time. Most importantly however, I feel more inclined to trust the final knots.

Last chance in a million years

I was browsing the forums over at the Wild Fishing Scotland site today and noticed a post about the comet Lulin. It’s apparently going to be visible in the southeast sky after sunset this week. Worth catching this time around, as it’ll be another million years or so until the next time it’s this clearly visible. I’m not sure where that figure comes from, but I’ve heard it bandied around.

Anyway, the SkyandTelescope.com website has plenty of details for geeks like myself. Worth checking out.

Must see BBC film (the Pacific salmon run)

For those of you (lucky?) enough to live in the UK, there was a simply amazing program about the great Pacific salmon runs last week. It’s still available for online viewing via the magnificant iPlayer here, but get in and watch it quick before it disappears sometime this week. As usual David Attenborough delivers a fantastic commentary, and the footage is simply astounding.

Here’s the blurb, taken from the BBC website:

Every year grizzly bear families in North America depend for their survival on a spectacular natural event: the return of hundreds of millions of salmon from the Pacific Ocean to the mountain streams where they were born. The salmon travel thousands of miles to spawn and then die. The great run not only provides food for bears, but for killer whales, wolves, bald eagles, and even the forest itself. The question is: will the salmon return in time to keep hungry bears alive?

A mother grizzly and her cubs emerge from their den high in snowy Alaskan mountains. Filming from the air the team capture a TV first, following the bears as they negotiate a near vertical slope on their journey to the coast where they await the return of the salmon.

Meanwhile, the salmon are making their way to the to river mouths where they must swim upstream and against the current. The programme reveals how they tackle the torrents and leap over waterfalls, a feat equivalent to a human jumping over a house.

Dozens of hungry bears eagerly await the salmon that make it up river. In another TV first, underwater cameras record the ingenuity and fancy footwork they use to collect dead salmon from the bottom of deep pools.

In the final 10-minute diary, Close Encounters of a Grizzly Kind, wildlife cameraman Jeff Turner, who has filmed bears for 20 years, reveals how he pioneered techniques to show for the first time how bears caught salmon underwater.

Well the day had to arrive eventually. Yes indeed Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Tamanawis is going fishing tomorrow. Things have got so desperate that I’m referring to myself in the third person again. Dangerously pretentious times that clearly betray his degrading state of mind. Strewth, time to get out..

bigfishThis is a big fish. I caught this big fish, all by myself, about 3 years ago. It weighed 3lb, which is of course rather a lot for a grayling. The photo is getting trundled out yet again just to remind readers that I can catch fish, in case things don’t go swimmingly tomorrow..

So yes, yes indeedeo, I’m positively itching to get out now.. So much so that I’m wasting time writing this crap right now, at 9pm, becasuse it seems like the right sort of commemerative thing to do. So, hold your breath, there is going to be a post on Tamanawis in the next few days that actually describes fishing. I can’t wait. Tight lines Dr. Tamanawis, you’re fighting for mankind.

Via the Moldy Chum blog, I came across an article about the upcoming River Why film this morning. It draws attention to one or two interesting things of which I was not previously aware. Most importantly, David James Duncan, the author of the original (and wonderful) book, has done as much as he can to halt the film’s production.

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Amber Heard, star of the upcoming River Why film. Hmm..excellent casting I’d say.

According to the article, he has been to court, claiming copyright infringement and various other bits and bobs, which has resulted in the current production of the film being unable to use his name in promoting the film. I say ‘current production’ because the article goes on to say that once the upcoming film has been released, Duncan will once again own the rights to his own book, and is planning to make his own screen version. Hmm…. all a bit dodgy I reckon.

In an earlier post I mentioned that Duncan had been contributing to the screenplay. A commenter on that post pointed out that the film would be quite different to the book (er, not a huge surprise..). I now learn that Duncan has been fighting the film.. Personally, I’m a bit confused. But looking at the Official Website for the new film, I see no mention of Duncan at all.

I don’t like being overly negative towards people who are trying to produce a film, or make music, or do anything creative. But I do begin to struggle a little bit when it appears that a film is being made, not just with a shrug of the shoulders from the author, but with a pitched court battle between him and the producers. I wouldn’t give a damn, of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was David James Duncan who created the story, the characters, the beautiful mood of the book. It’s his novel, and although I’m fully aware that copyright law is more complicated than my simplistic standpoint, I simply don’t feel comfortable about a film that doesn’t have the author’s backing. Amber Heard, however, I feel quite comfortable about.

W. H. Murray tells it like it is

Sometimes you read a book which reaches far inside your soul and carves out a lasting place. Reading Mountaineering in Scotland is one of those wonderful, exciting and extremely humbling experiences that can’t help but enliven one’s spirit as to the worth of life. A bit like some of the passages which describe fishing in Chris Yates’s book, How to Fish, you’re left with the strongest feeling that it would be impossible for anyone to ever write words to better express the beauty of mountaineering.

Tonight’s passage comes from Murray’s final climb on the Beauchille in 1941, before he went off to Egypt for the war years. It’s impossible to read the account without imagining the tinge of sadness that must have accompanied him as he climbed, in the full knowledge that he might never return to Scotland. He did of course, and went on to write many of the accounts described in Undiscovered Scotland.

The mountain looked like a fortress of ice, its summit diamond cut deep into a royal blue sky.

It was this last that held us there. It was not along the confusion of snow-turret and bastions, nor even the ridges racing up and up, drawing in to the white blaze where the last rocks leaped against the blue; not grace of design, nor colour, nor height – none of these things alone – that charged our minds with wonder. These beauties were indeed endless, but were brought to unity and fulfilled in that austere and remote line dividing snow from sky. It was the signature of all things. It held us spellbound. It is hard to know why, until we know that it is the most simple things that most deeply impress a man. Until we know that we shall not hope to know the true beauty. Up there, nothing stirred. Not even ‘the sigh that silence heaves’; only a breathless stillness. A bright light. A pureness of beauty above all that the eye can see, or ear hear, or it can enter into the heart of man to conceive. One may say nothing of it that is not somehow false or misleading. For the truth that can be spoken is not the truth. Yet on the heights of truth one never climbs in vain.

Whisky of the month…

Good single malt whisky is a truly wonderful thing to behold. I’ve mentioned a few nice whiskies in posts gone by, and now I reckon it’s time to start talking about more of the really nice ones I’ve tried.

I am absolutely not an expert on whisky, by any stretch of the imagination. However, I do love the stuff, so as and when I come across a belter, I’ll put mention of it up here.

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I’m going to start off with a whisky I don’t own, but which I have tried a number of times recently, thanks to the generosity of other folks’ cabinets. It’s a new, special edition Tobermory 15 year old. Have a look here on Loch Fyne Whiskies page. The presentation is pretty amazing, including a nicely finished wooden box with a cutout of the isle of Mull on the front. This is, of course, inconsequential to the incredible experience of drinking the stuff.

Following distillation at the Tobermory distillery on the isle of Mull, the whisky has been matured for 14 years in oak casks on the mainland. It has then been transfered back to the island for maturation in sherry casks for the final year.

The simplest description I can come up with is that it’s like drinking toffee apples sprinkled with dark chocolate, lightly smoked with simmering peat. The finish is long and warming, the toffee melting into soft chocolate and spice. I could still taste it after more than half an hour, and the glorious smell lingered in the glass for much longer. It’s pretty sensational actually, like nothing I’ve tried before. I’d hope so too, at fifty quid a pop. Definitely one for the back of the whisky cabinet, reserved for quiet personal contemplation, or perhaps sharing with the closest of friends.

Between the vertical walls of the gully I looked out as though between blinkers. Yet that very restriction had merit. It gave to the hills, arrayed in keen edges against a pale green sky, and flaring a more fiery pink with each passing moment, a framed and focussed power to strike for all time to the mind. The broader and more splendid panorama, prevailing all daylong, confuses the eye with too great a mass of detail – suffers from a diffused interest that too readily fades with time and is forgotten. Moreover, that panorama is not lost through a gully-climb. It comes at the top, a sudden revelation; thus more memorable.

For a few minutes the mountains burned, white and red upon a field of green and gold. In low country one may see so rich and full a glow of colour in the cavernous nave of Chartres Cathedral, when the forenoon sun floods the stained glass and the vast brown flags are flecked by shafts of ruby and blue. But Chartres is not matched elsewhere. To seek such depth of colour, and to find it in yet more noble forms, one must go to mountains.

Autumn colours

There have been some wonderful, and some extremely dreary days in the last couple of months. Whatever the weather, it’s a great time of year to photograph. The sun is low in the sky all day, and when it shines it’s beautiful.

I’ve been out a lot recently with my yee oldee camera, a Yashicamat. It’s metal, simple and brilliant. This post’s gallery was all photographed with old fashioned slide film, and I have to say the colours and tones are a lot nicer than I’ve ever got with my digital SLR. Modern life is rubbish. Except for nice film scanners.

W. H. Murray

I’m currently reading the book Mountaineering in Scotland, by W. H. Murray. It is a legendary book for many walkers and climbers in the UK, and for very good reason. It’s so good in fact, that I’m going to start putting up the odd quote from it to help fill the space between my sparsish blog posts. I hope the words will help to highlight Murray’s wonderful writing talent.

In the following excerpt, Murray describes his thoughts following the hardest climb of his life, Observatory Ridge on Ben Nevis, January 1938. Climbing through the night, the party of three finally reached the summit at 11:30pm.

I answered `Thank God!’ And for once I meant it. Nothing more was said, then or later. But I had no doubt then, and have none now, that this was the longest and hardest climb in relation to sheer strain that we should ever do. We had learnt that when one stands on the summit after such a climb it is not the mountain that is conquered – we have conquered self and the mountain has helped us.

Sounds

A while back I was sitting in a pub having a conversation with some friends. The topic was our favourite sounds. A bunch of the usual suspects came up, fresh snow under foot, a gurgling highland burn, the sea washing up and down a sandy beach. There were suggestions from the city too, the distant chatter of a primary school playground, the far-off pulsing of train wheels passing over tracks, the rising roar of a football crowd. I love all of these sounds, and I was delighted to partake of such conversation.

Eventually I got to thinking about my own favourite sound, the one that really sticks out and sends the shivers down my spine. It was all a bit surreal to be honest, as I found myself describing a sound I’d only ever heard a handful of times. I don’t think I’d ever even had a outright conscious thought about it, let along taken the time to put it at the top of my favourite sounds list. It’s a really wonderful sound, but I think what sets it apart is the environment in which it must be heard.

I’ve only ever heard the sound while on my own. My clearest recollection comes from a hillwalk a couple of years back. I was walking up a long glen, along the bottom of which flowed a burn of such crystal clarity that I simply had to scramble down and plunge my hand into one of its bitter-cold pools. I remember fanning out my fingers and pausing for a few moments as the flesh under my fingernails started to turn blue. Perhaps it was the long walk, the heavy pack or just the sheer relief of having time alone in a beautiful glen, but I found staring at my hand through the water utterly compelling. As numbness finally began to turn to pain, I freed my frigid hand from the water and continued up the glen.

As I neared the head of the glen, my objective loomed large ahead and above me. A myriad of small gullies criss-crossed each other on my right hand side, falling steeply down to the valley floor. My route lay to the left, up the grassy ridge studded with boulders and wee knolls. My breathing steadied and my heart slowed, and as their combined hum faded into the background, the sound came seeping into my head.

It was like a chorus of far-away flutes playing in unison and slightly out of tune with each other. At the first instant of perceiving it, I felt a little confused, and I remember turning 360 degrees around, looking for a sign of life. None was to be seen, save the circling raven, at least one of which seems to inhabit every single glen in Scotland. I faced back toward my route, before my attention was pulled back to the right and those snaking gullies.

I was pretty sure that the sound was coming from up the cliff face, caused by a perfect matching of the wind direction to the gully faces. As the wind sheared across the sharp edges of the gullies, it caused them to sound out a chorus of notes that resonated around the amphitheatre. I don’t know why this particular set of gullies produced such a pronounced audible sound, but I do know that it was an absorbing experience and one that I won’t forget.

The chorus came and went as the wind sped up and slowed down. Eventually I could predict when the sound would come by the feeling of increasing cold on my right cheek. I squinted my eyes and searched up and down the mountain side, perhaps expecting to see evidence of some lone inhabitant of the glen who was having me on. There were no other human souls in the glen that day, just my confused and amazed self, the wind, the cliffs and the raven.

I think the reason the sound was so completely enthralling was that, standing alone in a glen like that, one’s imagination can quickly find itself free and running. I thought of the folks that used to live in the glen, and all of the other countless glens like it, who have now died or moved on, leaving the beautiful landscape to pretenders like myself. I wondered if they had ever noticed the sound.

But the strongest feeling I had was that the sound was the closest thing to the sound of eternity that I had ever heard or felt. I wasn’t listening to something crafted by man or creature, but to a musical sound caused by wind and rock. I had no control, no role to play, no applause to give. I was there to appreciate it perhaps, but I’m not sure for what else. Whenever I get to thinking about life and its ups and down, perhaps even its purpose on a particularly dour day, I find it difficult to comprehend the scale and meaning of time. Standing there, trying to predict the onset of the flutes, I had a kind of moment of clarity where I thought, for the briefest moment, that I understood what a really long time was like.

I have often looked at rocks and mountains and thought about the brevity of my life, even the brevity of human existence. But even then I find it hard to really connect with or understand those thoughts. Sure, some things are old, I’m pretty young, what can I say? I think the perception of a tangible sensation helped make the connection in a way that, perhaps, nothing else can. I was an intruder in the landscape, there for a brief few hours, and I was lucky enough to hear a sound that has probably sounded in that glen since the last ice age.

In the end of course, I’m tempted to laugh all of this quasi-philosohpical nonsense off, and to say that a sound is just a sound, and the sound in that glen just happened to be a particularly nice one. Some days I do just that, but not this morning. For today as least, it’s the sound that helps me understand.

Busy times…

Times have been busy and not a little challenging at Tamanawis HQ of late. End of thesis, a flat move, job hunting and a few other things have severely limited time available for bloggy matters. However, all is not forgotten or lost. I do enjoy writing the blog and will dedicate some real time to writing when I get a working internet connection at home…

A recent comment pointed out the imminent arrival of the hollywood production of the book The River Why. I may make a post about this at some point, but suffice to say I’m a little worried about this fact… The original book gave rise to the name of the blog, and is full of subtlety and deep character examination. I’m not sure how possible it is to transfer that to the screen, particularly a hollywood production-type job. My only reassurance comes from the fact that David James Duncan, the author, has contributed to the screenplay.. here’s hoping.

The birds and the leaves

It’s been a wonderful autumn here in the east of Scotland. The rainy August gave way to a bright September, and so far October’s been pretty good too. Blustery, a bit drizzly at times, but full of fleeting blue light which has lit up tree leaves into thousands of wee daylight candles.

No fishing done yet, though I am planning some grayling trips in the next couple of months. All has been very quiet around these parts for the last few months, so if you’re still bothering to check the blog, thanks for visiting. I do hope to get back to more writing as soon as I can.

Sad events relating to a close friend have put some things into hard perspective in the last two weeks or so, which has made updating or doing anything for that matter somewhat trivial. However, I have been out with the cameras, so perhaps Tamanawis will have to undergo a temporary transformation over the next few weeks into a photoblog. To be honest, it was always just an excuse for showing off photos anyway..

Apparently a bloke caught a good sized salmon last week, right in the middle of Paris. I don’t know much about the history of salmon in that part of the world, but it seems pretty amazing. It gets really hot in the summer over there, so heaven knows how it survived long enough to get hooked.

Read about it here.

Red sky at night…

…thesis delight. I finally submitted my thesis on monday, after possibly the worst 3 months of my life. A pain beyond anything I encountered as an undergraduate… Anyway, it’s finished now, just in time for the end of the trout season. Timing is clearly a specialty of mine. I am planning on some pike and grayling fishing as soon as I can, so look out for actual real fishing posts coming soon…

Extra points for anyone who can identity the munro..

Wolfes go fishing

Just to continue the recent period of inane links to other stuff, I came across the following article about wolfe behaviour:

Wolves prefer fishing to hunting

Reading through, it seems a little bit like research which states the blindingly obvious, but hey it’s still interesting.

Catch magazine

Came across this today, Catch Magazine. Looks like a bit of a stoater to be honest..

On Saturday I went up the west coast to Oban for a wee day trip. ‘Twas a fine day indeed, particularly since the forecast all week proclaimed doom. No fishing featured in proceedings, but a sight seeing stop by the bonny shores of Loch Awe did reveal a strange aquatic beast. Lying on the bank, next to a half-burnt fire containing a fine collection of rubbish, was a large fish skull. Unquestionably that of a pike, and a pretty big one too. The array of teeth was particularly impressive. Certainly makes me glad I’m not a perch..

I wondered how it had got to be there. I’d like to think it was roasted and eaten as part of an enjoyable fishing trip. But given the state of the rest of the place, I couldn’t help but suspect a more brutal, pointless history. From what I can understand, killing large pike like that, even when they live in a trout loch, is not a particularly good idea. Along with eating the weaker, often sick and injured fish of smaller species, they stem the tide of young jack pike that can really do damage. I won’t go into the subject of the state of Loch Awe any further at the moment, for if I start it will be a tirade of venting… holy $%^£(*^ are some people stupid.

As we were walking up back to the car, a bright red mushroom was spotted. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m still trying to find out what it was, because none of my books show anything so deep a red. There were a few of them together, buried under the long wet grass. If anyone is an expert (or otherwise), I’d be delighted to know it’s name.

20,000

Having just made the previous post, I noticed that the 20,000 unique hit mark was passed last night, which is almost hard to believe to be honest. Somewhere out there quite a few people are dropping by my little corner of cyberspace to read fishy mumblings. Thanks to everyone who comes here, and especially to those of you who seem to enjoy it enough to come back. I’ll raise a quiet glass of Caol Ila tonight :)

A new blog to read

Right then, the long-awaited blog by one of my good pals has gone online. Actually, it’s been running for more than a month now, but I only just noticed it. Take it from me, this one will be well worth reading. Find it here:

Turning Over Small Stones

The author used to live close to me here in Scotland, but has now buggered off to the USA. Trout and grayling all over the UK have been having a party to celebrate. Eccles, as he is now apparently known, likes cakes, streamers, dry flies and occasionally (masterful) nymphing. He’s a master with the trout, though still has some way to go with large grayling (ask his wife…)

Just had to post this.

First off a wonderful wee article about the vendace, the UK’s rarest freshwater fish: click here.

Then a pretty unbelievable, and extremely unrelated, article from down in New Zealand: click here. Gave me a good wee chortle that one.

How to Fish by Chris Yates is possibly the best fishing book I’ve ever read. It contains no trout fishing, flies, waders or mention of the word ‘tippet’. He even proclaims himself as devoid of the trout fishing bug, preferring the Perch found in the sedate rivers of the south of England to the trout of the tumbling tirades up here in Scotland, or anywhere else for that matter. All of this is totally inconsequential.

As a writer Chris Yates has achieved something close to perfection with How to Fish. He captures the beauty, obsession, madness and gladness of fishing with the most fantastically simple, yet hypnotically engaging style I’ve ever come across. It sometimes seems amazing to me that a writer can have such a thing as their own ‘style’. After all, they’re only words, and how many ways can there really be of arranging ‘fishing’, ‘wonderful’ and ‘fell in’? Reading Yate’s offering I feel I’ve understood just as much about writing as about the glory of fishing. The pace of words, the construction of the chapters, it’s all brilliant and just draws you into a different world, populated by stripy fish and gently wafting weed.

The first time I picked the book up I had a slightly tentative feeling towards coarse fishing, born of several years of exclusively fishing flies. That feeling lasted about two seconds once I started reading, and it wasn’t long before my own memories of catching perch and tench as a child crept back. I now find myself in the position of feeling close to finally understanding something about the universality of fishing. It really is about a mindset, and the species and methods are almost meaningless beyond personal preference. Funnily enough I was reading John Gierach’s essay on ‘The Purist‘ just last night, which was rather timely.

If you want to read How to Fish for yourself, you can get a copy from here if you like. Mine is currently doing the rounds of all my family and fishing pals. For a sneak preview, I found the first chapter here in full. As a final aside, I recall downloading a podcast some time back featuring Chris Yates interviewed by Simon Mayo on BBC Radio 5 Live as part of the promotion for the book. It was very interesting to see how the pace of Chris’ voice seems nicely tied in to his writing style. I have a copy of it but have been unable to locate one online. If there’s any interest I’ll try and find a way to distribute it, if doing so isn’t illegal.

Sheep!

It’s not fishing, but it is amazing.

I saw something this weekend to make your eyes widen and your pee turn slightly purple. I was on a wee single track road in the west highlands, checking out a loch I want to fish. Suddenly a sheep came zipping past, faster than I ever realised a sheep could travel (that wasn’t in shrink wrap in the back of a Sainsbury’s lorry). A swift, slightly manic`bound’ I would say. About two seconds later a pair of collies tore past me and bolted up the grassy bank to try and cut off the sheep’s escape route. The whole shebang then ensued, around the corner, before replaying in the opposite direction as once more the sheep bounced past me along the road with the dogs in eager chase. This time, however, there was a cattle grid fifty yards down the road. I expected the sheep to come to a spluttering halt, but instead she jumped clean over the grid and careered off down the road. Even the wily dogs were careful enough to go through the large open gate right next to the grid.

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For the last two days I’ve woken up with this bizarre image in my mind of that fluff ball of a sheep in mid-air over the cattle grid. I went to check it out, and it was longer than I am tall, which must make it at least 2 metres. That is some sheep.

Fishing this weekend I hope. Then it’ll be back to real blog posts and not this kind of sheepishness.

I recently started reading `How To Fish‘ by Chris Yates. It’s actually not about ‘how to fish’, and it’s not even about fly fishing, well at least not principally. It’s main subject is coarse fishing, particularly for perch, but the essence of this seems to be utterly identical to fly fishing.

I’m up to chapter 6, and it’s already quite clear that it is a really beauty of a book. Chris has a wonderful style of writing. It is deceptively simple, but also extremely elegant and insightful. The best thing I can say is that he seems to be able to communicate a feeling which gets somewhere close to one’s soul. I’ll try and write a proper review when I’ve finished, so for the moment I’ll leave you with a wonderful paragraph.

“…fishing offers a dimension where, even if you don’t cast very far into it, you can be free of the wired-up world and suddenly in touch with an equally complex, less concise but deeper-rooted reality. The simpler your approach the more intimately you’re involved; uncluttered by a barrow-load of equipment, untroubled by the passage of time, hopefully undisturbed and often unambitious, you rediscover the art of improvisation that you mastered as a child, and as you become more absorbed in the watery surroundings you begin to notice details – the bending of a reed, the forming of a ripple, an abrupt stillness – that gradually join up to create an event that you may be part of. “

Ansel Adams

Ansel Adams was one of the greatest photographers ever. His landscape photos of Yosemite in the west of the USA really did set the standard for black and white photography of that genre. Photos like `Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico‘ have a kind of magnetic power to draw your eye around the frame. The sharpness, depth, tonality and composition of such photos remains unsurpassed. The fact that many of his great photos were taken in the early part of the last century does sometimes seem hard to believe.

Folks in the UK now have a great opportunity to see a wonderful selection of his own hand-printed photos at the `Ansel Adams – A Celebration of Genius’ exhibition which is now on display in the centre of Edinburgh. If you stand at the east end of Princes Street and look south across the top of the station you’ll see a big poster proclaiming ANSEL ADAMS. The exhibition is on at the City Art Gallery, which is right below the poster.

I’ve been twice, and it really is absolutely fantastic. It’s also a very rare chance to see the real thing, hand-printed by the Master and simply incredible to behold. Well worth the trip from Glasgow, Fife or anywhere in the UK really.

The photo in the first link above link is a horrific JPG version of the original. If you go to the exhibition and see the original you will be truly amazed at just how good a hand-printed black and white photograph can look.

Have a look at the (slightly poor) promotional website here.

Included in the exhibition is a display by a Scottish photographer called Lindsay Robertson. I hadn’t heard of him before, but his photos are also wonderful. He shoots using large format black and white film (like Ansel), and some of the prints are more than 5 FEET wide. You stand in front of them and truly feel like you could step into the frame and feel the cool breeze creeping across Rannoch Moor. His contribution to the exhibition is really excellent.

What else can I say? GO!

Photography

At the moment I’m getting more and more interested in photography. My new dSLR has really opened my eyes, and now I’m photographing more with my old manual gear too. During my internet browsing I’ve come across a few great photographers, but Bruce Percy has stood out as particularly excellent. Have a look at his site here. He seems to be based in Scotland, but his photos are from all around the world. Well worth a look.

One of those sunsets…

It was one of those sunsets tonight. The light crawls right through the cooling air and onto the skin. No longer was I a passive observer of a distant photograph. The light fell onto me and everything around. Deep orange and red, oozing across south Edinburgh and coating everything. It’s the kind of sunset impossible to capture on film or pixel, for the light is everywhere except inside my camera. I snapped away gleefully, but I hope the feeling will last longer.

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People say: “they don’t make stuff like they used to”. I say this, my pals say this and my dad certainly says this (though I secretly think he’s referring to people as well…). It was rather nice this evening to see that in some quarters, at least, they actually DO make stuff properly, like they used to, good and hard.

I’m always on the look out for a hook to turn a bad situation into something positive, and hopefully something to write on the blog, and this momentous event certainly falls into this category. This afternoon I bought (or rather, WAS bought) a rather cracking bottle of fine single malt whisky. Having taken a good while in the shop carefully sifting through a few malts, I decided on something I hadn’t tried before, from the west coast of Islay. It was a Bruichladdich, and mighty fine she was too.

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As I climbed out the car this evening, I put the shining silver case on the roof of my car. Unbeknown to me it was upside down, so after locking the car and turing to gather the whisky and other faff I hoisted her briefly into the air only for the bottle inside to quietly slip out and roll off the roof. I’m sure the scene was comical: a bottle of fine malt careering off the roof, with a stupefied punter moving in comical slow motion to try and grab it whilst simultaneously grasping a large potted plant and two cameras.

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The bottle hit the deck with a bone crunching, slightly eye watering `ting’ before quietly rolling up against the pavement. I dashed over, picked her up and cradled her in my shaking arms. Unbroken, just slightly chipped. That is some hard-ass glass man shit. It’s nice to see something made good and proper.

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I raised a quiet toast this evening to a fine malt, a solid bottle and good the old fashioned tough stuff spirit. It’s important for fly fishing too, of course. Not long to go now…

Frosty the Tree

There has been some incredible weather this winter. Wild rain, freezing fog, bright sunshine and snow. One of the most memorable days was the 12th of January. I drove up through the central highlands, and took loads of photos. I thought I’d share my favourite one.

frosty_the_tree.jpg

I recently got a new camera, and it’s been a bit of a beauty. Photography provides a nice distraction from winter fishing blues. I suppose taking photographs of rivers is about as close as I can get at the moment..

The Robin

The Robin drinks his drink
of water from the well
The Sparrow thinks his think
of how life does him well
The Blackbird skips his skip
around the garden green
And I watch them all
whilst my weary eyes gleam.

I wish it was mine, but the author is a relative. Merry Christmas.

Books

I worked a little bit on the blog this morning, and you can now find a burgeoning list of my favourite books under the page “Books“, which is a permanent link over on the left under the main navigation menu. Needless to say, more will be added as I find time.

Happy reading…

Literary Masters

I love reading fishing books. Even during the trout season I find a good fishing book can relax and excite me like no other written words. Somehow the process of fishing seems to lend itself very well to the art of the written word. There’s always a beginning, quite often a middle, and always some kind of end. Perhaps the most important thing though is that fishing can always be a journey. And there’s nothing like a good journey to strike imagination and hope into the mind of a reader.

One of the great things about internet fishing diaries and websites is the potential for discovering books, both new upstarts and old time gems. I’ve bought several books following recommendations from my pal Alistair over at the Urban Fly Fisher blog. One of my recent favourites is “Trout Madness” by Robert Traver.
Read the rest of this entry »

Summer on Clyde

Summer on Clyde
Where the sedges fly
The sky red blue
And the anglers two

Together they stand
Cheap cork in their hands
Smiles on their faces
In the river, gracious

A tumbling riffle
Flows into calm glass
Speeds up and encircles
Dry legs in the water

Wafting weed pulses
And breaks up the flow
Green hair on the rocks
Washed daily, pure water

To come and to stand
On the grassy hill bank
Is perfection removed
From a world gone mad

Summer on Clyde
Brothers, side by side
The fading light
And the anglers plight

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Blue boat

We walk with hope
to the blue moored boat

And cast a fly

across the evening summersky

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Do you ever feel like this when you’re fishing? I’ve always wanted to be able to fly.. hard to imagine the freedom. Sometimes I think it’s possible to get pretty close with a fly rod. All that is needed is the flow, the light and a mind in the present and the far.

Yes, today I am feeling pretentious…

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Um…

There’s something strangely voyeuristic about losing your hair. It’s like watching a car crash in extremely slow motion. You know what’s coming, and it’s not pleasant, but it is somewhat fascinating. For a time you quietly pretend it’s not happening, as if looking away will solve the problem. But gradually, as the cars get closer and the sink gets increasingly clogged, it’s harder and harder to ignore.

Going au naturel when young is perhaps the cruelest way. The teenage years are only just gone, and finally you’re getting a little more comfortable with the carcass God gave you. Every now and then you notice what it’s like to be an ‘adult’. Feelings of responsibility, guilt and an increasing desire to go fishing 24/7. You realise time does move on, some things do change and you do grow slowly older.

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“We are the dollars and cents and the pounds and pence”. (TY)

Probably a thousand quid of rods and narry a fish. April on Tay.
Beautiful.

A sledghammer and a pavement

It’s March the 23rd, and it’s baltic. Just as we thought, winter has again come 6 months late this year. It looks like no spring, then straight to a long roasting summer and no water. Then rain, unfishably high rivers and the next close season. It’s going to be magic. Welcome to fishing in Scotland, but not as we know it.

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I haven’t even been out yet, and the season on some rivers has been open for a week. Unbelievable. It takes something pretty major to stop me fishing like this, even in bad conditions. I hate myself at the moment, because my head isn’t really in the right place for fishing. I need a sledghammer and a pavement.

1) Practice casting so much that you bugger up your elbow.
2) Die.
3) Get married.
4) Practice casting so much that you bugger up your elbow.
5) Get constipation from too much curry. Normally, people associate loose bowels with too much curry. These people simply haven’t eaten enough. Keep going, I’ll see you there.

Last night I finished reading a book. I’m not a particularly fast reader, so this was a relatively rare event and worthy of mention. Rather more worthy of mention however was the book itself. Isolation Shepherd by Iain R. Thomson is now among my favourite books. It’s a wonderfully simple premise: the life and times of a shepherding family who lived in one of the most remote and beautiful glens in all of Scotland. From Strathfarrar in the east, up the great expanse of Loch Monar and into the upper reaches at Strathmore, this is a book set in the finest of Scottish landscapes. Great mountains lie all around. The fantastically remote Sgurr na Lapaich and An Riabhachan to the south, Sgurr a’Chaorachain to the north and the Bowman’s Pass to the west are just a few of the many fine hills and valleys. There are rivers and lochs as well. Monar itself, the Gead lochs to the south west and the myriad streams and burns running off the peaks. A little piece of isolated perfection nestled into the far north west of this island.

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The past couple of weeks have brought a new kind of fishing low. The winter grayling fishing got off to a bad start earlier this month with high water and cold extremities. The fact that my (more experienced) fishing pal blanked as well was possibly a small consolation, but some early damage to the fishing confidence was nevertheless dealt.

Carefully playing down this feat I tried to paint a rosy picture to my brother. Images of crisp winter sunshine, secret pools and massive grayling enticed him down from the north east to spend a few days here. I described short, relaxing days spent prospecting for monsters. The evenings would bring searing hot curry at our favourite joint and a few pints of the best of beers to round things off.

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The Bee Man

I don’t know who this guy is, but I call him the Bee Man. I don’t take many photos, so I like to make the few I take special.

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I love the hills.

When I was a bit younger I used to go on holiday to various bits of Scoland with my family, and the older I got the more I noticed the hills. For a long time they seemed far off and unatainable. There they would lie at the end of huge valleys and across boggy moors, quietly beckoning. None of my family were real hill-walkers so I felt bound by the seat belt of the car and the rain drumming on the B&B bedroom windows.

Near the end of my school days something happened which changed everything. I went on a Duke of Edinburgh Expedition, as part of the Gold Award. The expedition was a 50 mile walk over 4 days through some of wildest Scotland. Up to this point I had always dissapointed the Scots half of my family by demonstrating apparent indifference to their side of my heritage. Those 4 days changed a lot. A seed was sown and that seed has grown.

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Bob’s your uncle

My fly fishing ‘history’ can be roughly split into two periods: BB and AB. These stand for ‘Before Bob’ and ‘After Bob’. Anyone sniggering at this point, well, I’ve never met the man so let’s not go there.. The Bob I’m referring to is of course Bob Wyatt of Trout Hunting fame. This book had a really strong influence on the way I fish and the way I think about fishing. In fact it is what made me sit up and start to think a little about my fishing in the first place. It’s helped me to be able to ponder, with at least slight objectivity, about what might be going on when I tie that shaggy size 14 sedge onto my tippet.

One of the things I most enjoy about Bob’s writing is his wonderful ability to present simple, logical ideas that suggest how trout live and feed. His writing style is very relaxed and readable, and you never feel you are receiving a lecture. Sometimes when I’m out on a river and things are not going well I’ll share a wry chuckle with myself (or anyone willing to listen) that goes somewhere along the lines of “what would Bob say?” More often than not the answer I find bubbling into my brain tells me to sit down, have a cup of tea and smell the flowers!

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I particularly like the emphasis Bob puts on fishing pals and how important it is to have in mind that fishing should be about the experience. One of the last and best chapters is in fact called “The Experience is the Thing” and I think he just about sums up all that is great about the shared joy to be found in angling. I feel like I’m there bobbing down the windward shore of a highland loch in June, a good pal near by, sharing some banter and catching bright wild brown trout.

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If one of my own pals, the pal Al, is reading this I suspect a small smile may have crept across his lips by this point. This is to be expected however, because he ‘knows‘ Bob. Even if you don’t have this privilege, I cannot recommend a better book to tuck into this closed season.

Men of action

What a funny day it was today. All around the UK concerned people have taken to the streets to spread word about the environmental catastrophy of large scale fish farming of salmon. This is an issue many folks have been campaigning about for a good few years now, lead chiefly in this country by Bruce Sandison and the Salmon Farm Monitor group. Today was well publicised on the UK fishing forums, including the Wild Fishing Forum, from which several guys were out.

This is an important issue to me, and I think it should be for anyone with a passing interest in the well being of not only wild fish, but the environment in general. I am not a salmon fisherman. I have never fished for salmon, and I may never do so. However, the destruction wrought in the western coastal regions of Scotland, in large part due to the negative impacts of salmon farming, is truly shocking. Where there were once healthy wild fish populations there are now literally no fish at all. And the effects on the beautiful sea trout? Well, that’s even worse.


A pet hate of mine can be summed up by the phrase: “sayers, no dooers”. There is a big difference between talking the talk and walking the walk. I know this because it’s something that’s very easy to do, and I am certainly guilty of doing so on more than one occasion. This is part of what gave me the incentive to take part in the protest, or ‘action hour’ as it was called.

I joined up with a great guy called Bill in Edinburgh, and we spent an hour this morning handing out leaflets outside Marks and Spencers on Princes Street. You can just see the shop in the bottom left of the above photo. This was a particularly apt location because they sell both farmed and wild salmon. You can’t have it both ways.

There was due to be a few other folks but everyone dropped out bar the two of us, so we preached to the masses alone!


I learned a lot about life in that hour..! Some observations:

  • There are a lot of people on Princes street on a saturday morning (err..surprise there)
  • There were an amazing number of older folks (say over 70), more than I’ve ever realised. We really are living in an aging country
  • Generally, younger people were more willing to take leaflets (perhaps reflecting that they ‘related’ to me better as our ages were closer..?)
  • There are a lot of tourists in Edinburgh (and it’s flaming October!)
  • Most people in this world succeed in looking incredibly miserable as they go about their day (think faces of granite)
  • My ‘offers-to-acceptance’ ratio for giving people leaflets was probably 1 in 10. I need a bigger smile I think.


Standing in a street like this does not come naturally to me (or to most anglers I think). I didn’t really ‘enjoy’ it that much, but it was an experience. There were only a few really rude people, a couple of whom told me they were too old to give a shit about this sort of crap. Perhaps the clientele on Princes street were a little less receptive than people would have been at ‘out of town’ supermarkets. We still handed out loads of leaflets but I do wish more people had been willing to take one.

I think my overriding impression was that the vast majority of people really don’t want to be bothered as they go about their lives. I certainly know I’m bit like that. Many people don’t have the time or inclination to care about issues like salmon farming unless you’re really willing to put some effort in and spread the word. Indeed, you can literally see the horror on some people’s faces when they realise they’re walking towards you and you’re handing out leaflets and they might have to take one and oh shit oh shit it’s so horrible… Not everyone of course, but quite a few.

In the end, it was only an hour of ones time. It’s really hardly anything at all to give a tiny bit of effort like this to try and help a very worthwhile cause. There are plenty of other worthwhile causes in the world of course, but I guess this issue is one I feel a connection with because it affects wild salmonids, and I love wild salmonids.

Last weekend I met up with the pal Al, and headed down to a nice bit of water. Once again the conditions seemed good, but once again the clock chimed that it was late in the season, and the trout were thinking of other things.


We both started off with dries, myself putting up the usual emerger pattern. I worked up some lovely runs, but only one take registered the effort, and came so out of the blue that it was missed. Desperation began to take hold and I tackled up nymphs that were three months heavier than usual. I refer of course to the deep nymphs of winter grayling fishing, but the river seemed as dead as any December afternoon.


It wasn’t too long before I found some fish. First a small grayling, then a better one from precicely the same spot. Great to see them starting to shoal up, in ones and two at the moment but soon to be more, let’s hope! A couple of trout followed from an adjacent seam, and the hint of a beaming grin passed across the cheeks.


The sun began to sink before I knew it, and it wasn’t too long before I followed in a similar fashion into the river. For some reason I only seem to get properly wet when I’m fishing with the Al pal. Has to be some kind of voodoo curse involved. Having said that, there wasn’t too much involved beyond idiocy when trying to wade through a 5′ deep hole.


This weekend I headed a little South to fish with the brother again. We fished all day using every method known to the (moderately) self-respecting fly-man but couldn’t connect with much beyond parr. The end of the season feels close. It is close, barely a week away.

In the end I guess everyone deals with the end of a season in their own way. I tend to feel pretty philosophical about the whole thing and try to look at things in perspective. The close season is really a good thing. It concentrates the mind and you get so much more out of the months you can get on the river. And if I’m still saying that in Feburary, I’ll eat all the hats.


It’s been difficult to reach the heights of our northern trip in the last few weeks. In fact the fishing has been at best difficult, and at worst useless. I’ve found myself on some usual haunts, as well as a couple of new ones. But the running theme has been one of dour days and precious few fish.


The weather has been unseasonably warm, but it seems the fish just don’t look out for sunglasses weather when it comes time to think about getting it on. Despite all things it has really begun to feel like the clouds of another season are beginning to be blown away. It’s a funny feeling really, because while I feel sad to know the season will soon pass, I also know that there have been some great moments that can only ripen in the memory. All that is needed is a winter break to focus the mind anew and bring the excitement of a fresh spring.


Ealier in September we took a wee jaunt up to Perthshire to fish a couple of rivers for a weekend. It coincided with a family celebration (no coincidence) so of course fishing had to be a major feature. The first afternoon was hot and bright, and we struggled away on a lovely little stream full of pocket water and banked by old Scots woodland. A couple of small trout provided minor breaks in the blanking, but this was perhaps a day for enjoying some of the other distractions of a highland stream.


The next day we headed off to a much larger river, and managed to time things pretty well. Soon after arriving some trout started to feed on a small hatch of late olives. We took a few pretty fish to the usual patterns, DHE and a little dun creation of mine that’s been doing quite well this season. A little voice in my head suggested that this might have been the last worthwhile rise of the season. Little voices are often right.


Muddlers at dusk

Last week I met up with a pal of mine for a spot of urban fly fishing. We headed down the River Almond in Edinburgh, a really pretty river which has seen a lot of persecution over the years. I’m aware of at least 2 significant fish kills on the river in the last 2 seasons, from diesel fuel and industrial chemicals. Amazingly some fish stick it out, and can provide a nice distraction for a quick evening session. I’ll be paying close attention to things on this river in the coming seasons, and really hope it gets a bit of a clean run of health.


We got down for around 8pm, and I tackled up a little nymph to fish through the pockets of water. It was quite difficult fishing, with plenty of current tongues to drag your line around. I soon found a cracking looking spot in front of a nicely angled boulder which slowed the river current a little. It was one of those times where you absolutely know there is a fish lying there, even though you can’t see him.


It took a bit of inventive casting/chucking of the nymph, but eventually I got a really nice drift. It was really difficult to see the leader, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to detect a take. Then something wierd happened, a bit like an experience had a few months back on a similar urban river. The feeling struck, and I struck, and the fish stuck. Worth practising this nymphing lark.


Now a good part of this river is very close to Edinburgh airport, and you certainly know about it fishing in the evenings. I know Alistair has plenty to say about urban fly fishing, but this was hardcore! Planes, planes everywhere, every two minutes rushing a couple hundred feet over our heads. At first it was exciting. Then it was a little tedious. Then it began to get downright annoying. We do suffer for our sport ;)


It was getting pretty late, so we found a nice run and tackled up some big scary flies, hoping for a passing sea trout. After a good while of fruitless casting, I opted rather bizzarly to do some extreme roll casting practice. Not a pretty sight, especially when there’s a size 8 longshank muddler minnow on the end of the cast.

Actually this photo isn’t me, but my pal had better loops than me tonight :)

Once the water was almost completely churned up by the beautiful presentation I was getting, the fly was left dangling in the current whilst we had a natter about something or other. Probably the damn aeroplanes. Out of nowhere the line tightened sharply, and I was into a fish. For just a split second I thought maybe, maybe it’s a sea trout. But it turned out to be a feisty brownie of a nice 3/4lb. Really good for this bit of river. We decided I’d reached a new nirvana of fishing, where I hook fish without even meaning to.

In case you’re wondering, he was bigger than he looks here.


It was now getting late, and nothing more was showing so it was on with the headtorches and back home. The moon made a lovely view as it rose upriver.

My brother and I are no Paul Maclean’s. We won’t win any fishing competitions, certainly won’t win any casting competitions, and neither of us is likely to marry Jennifer Aniston any time this year. What we lack in those departments we do however make up for in the ‘bullheaded determination’ category. To this end we got up at 5am on Sunday morning to go and see what was happening down our favourite river.


A pal of mine mentioned to me a while back that during the hot summer months he’d had most success on his local rivers very early in the morning. At such times the water temperature is lowest, and coupled with a steadily increasing air temperature as the sun comes up this may lead to good fly activity. I used to fish for tench very early in the morning, but what about trout?

We arrived expectantly awaiting a kettle of feeding fish, but of course we found a rather different river. Just the occasional gloop broke the smooth surfaces of the glides, and the bubbling runs busily chatted away to each other, the trout eavesdropping somewhere else.


I tried casting to a couple fish I saw rise, but after cycling from a DHE to a Shipman’s it looked rather like the fish couldn’t really be bothered. So we both switched to nymphs, vague haresy jobbies with black or gold noggins. I set things up with a little tuft of sheeps wool a couple of feet from the fly, perfectly happy that I was going to disown myself later for this terrible act of heresy. About 500 false strikes later I was ready for a DHS again. A size 18 brought a handful of takes, but it was obvious that things weren’t really happening. I began to wonder whether some rivers are naturally better ‘evening’ or ‘morning’ streams. Perhaps their orientation to the sun (as in directly upstream/downstream) has an effect. Certainly this matters to fishermen..!

This cracker took a size 8 Royal Wulff. At one stage, as the backing knot wizzed ever closer, I felt a pang of doubt over my abilities as an angler.

Further upstream I caught a couple of pretty trout to the DHE, fished with almost only the leader on the water. The more we fish here the more we realise this is the way. Charles Jardine had an article in FF&FT a couple of months ago about this. It’s got to be the best way to fish fast pockety water.


We had breakfast at about 1pm. Madcap dedication I say, considering we hadn’t really caught very well. But it was a lovely morning, a wee breeze and some flittering clouds adding to the yellow sunshine. A few sedges milled around landing on us and generally looking sleepy.

This chap caught my eye with his tigery patterns. John Goddard tells me he’s a brown silverhorn sedge, and is very common on streamy rivers.

Afternoon and nap time. Nothing like a kip on the river bank, especially after a couple of hours sleep the night before followed by 7 hours straight fishing.


About 4pm we stirred and thought about heading back to town for our evening arrangements. Wondering down the river we noticed that the breeze had strengthened and there were rain clouds on the horizon. What followed was totally unexpected.

A hatch. A big hatch. Of blue-winged olives.

It was fantastic to see little explosions in the riffles as trout broke the surface. Careful weighing up of the maths and we decided that the following formula had been applied by the trout:

Big BWO hatch + howling gale = loadsa flies on the water

We furthered this with:

Loadsa flies on the water + loadsa trout = a cracking rise

Which turned out to be spot on. Only it took me a short lifetime to realise exactly what was happening. First I managed to go through about 7 fly changes, from red-tags to bibios to double badgers, with thoughts of a terrestrial fall. The fish, however, were definitely experiencing some tunnel vision.


Finally I began to wise up and put on my never-fail CDC F-fly in a size 16, and started hooking fish. It was odd, it almost seemed like they were so clued into the duns that even the standard emergers were being ignored. I’m sure this had something to do with the strong wind, and slightly inclement conditions. This meant that the duns were really struggling to get airborne, so that many more ended up on the water than usual. Fascinating stuff I thought, and very exciting to be a part of. Next time I’ll try not to be caught so unawares. I suppose you don’t expect such good surface activity in the middle of the dog days.


As my brother pointed out, our takes-to-hookups-to-landings ratio was totally horrendous. I had so many fish splash at the fly, with my bullet-strikes failing to connect. I hooked quite a few despite this, but lost all before ‘proper’ release was possible. I was a little frustrated by this, especially as we had to leave while BWOs were still stumbling around on the water. But in hindsight, it was just great to be in a proper hatch again, and casting to rising fish with at least a vague idea of where the fly was.

It was amazing to witness how a really difficult fishing situation can suddenly become almost ‘easy’. A writer called Bob Wyatt (the guy whose fly patterns I usually use) wrote an article about this very thing in last months FF&FT, and to me it just makes more and more sense the longer I’m a fly fisherman. If there’s food, there’re fish. If there’s no food, use a wooly bugger.

Things have been hot recently. Weather wise I should add. It seems there’s been continuous sunshine for weeks and all my regular rivers are looking thin and summer silky.


I managed to fish three days in a row this weekend, down on my favourite bit of water. We spread things out so no water was fished more than once. Turned out to be a fascinating run of fishing. I think it highlighted some important things to me, which I may have ‘known’ already but are best learnt with real experience.


First night it was hot, with a little breeze to start with. We headed to a bit of river we haven’t fished before, but were dissapointed to find it was poor fly water. Actually it was more reminiscent of a narrow loch, the surface rippled in the wind. Not the nice streamy pocket water we usually fish. The water temperature was just about right for simmering bulgar wheat, so we walked and walked in search of riffly water. I felt smug that my decision to wet-wade was not going to be regretted.

Eventually came to a cracking pool, with dozens of channels between streamer weed and rocks. I waited whilst the brother fished the nice bits. As he was flicking the fly line out of the rod tip, the fly (a standard DHS, superbly tied once again) landed a couple of rod lengths ahead in some slow flowing water. A nice fish slashed at it and a Class A Bullet Strike followed, sending him packing to his bolt hole.


I ambled upstream finding more dead water and some enthusiastic parr feading on floating fag ends and anything else on the surface. It wasn’t until the sun was well gone, maybe 10.15, when I noticed some nice fish moving in a pool just downstream. I crept up and watched. There were mini-submarines in that pool. Big swirling wakes were all I saw of the fish as they supped down sedges and BWO spinners. One fish was well over 2lb judging by the water displacement, the other at least 2lb. Casting to them was just about impossible due to wading issues and sh!te casting ability on my part. So I accepted as much and enjoyed the knowledge that I’d found some whoppers.


These photos are of a BWO male spinner. As far as I know they don’t feature much in an evening rise, as it’s the females that lay eggs and die on the water. I think sherry spinners are much more vividly orange as well.

Next day and some serious fly tying took up a good bit of the day. I think I’ve cracked those DHEs. Seem to turn out well every time now. I tied a few with a bit of fluff to suggest a shuck. Not sure if that makes sod-all difference but I felt slightly intelligent doing so.


The weather was a little more cloudy this evening, and very humid. We were fishing at the bottom end of our more usual beat, again an area we haven’t fished much. A couple fish rose lazily, and I felt chuffed to catch a nice one of around 10oz to the DHE above. The brother had a few throughout the evening, to the DHS.


Something we both noticed was that drag was even more of an issue than normal, and it’s normally difficult to control. We reckoned the low water was making things worse, as the surface of the pools and flats we fished was always very ‘swirly’ if you catch my drift. Of course all rivers are swirly, but this was noticibly difficult. I thought about things for a very long time and came up with an amazing formula:

warm water + crap casting + bad drag = difficult

Next night I opted for a longer leader than usual, probably around 15′, with oodles of limp tippet (if you know what I mean). This definitely helped the drag issues (of course), but my hyper-crap casting made controlling where the fly went interesting. This was worst when casting only a couple of feet of fly line, fishing pocket water at close range.


Interestingly I caught a grayling, which seem quite rare where I fish. I see Ali had a similar experience the other night. Total fluke on my part, I was just beginning to drag the size 12 DHS across the water to cast again. Late on the fish really started to show, taking some of the BWO spinners that had returned. Definitely some caenis feeding going on as well. And some sedge feeding fish, so all in all quite good given the tepid water.


So fishing three days in a row at this time of year taught me a lot. The importance of timing of course. At no stage was it really worth fishing before 9pm. Peak of any rising was 10-11pm. Spinner feeding fish are a damned arse to cast to when you’re fishing a long leader and can’t see a thing. Caenis feeding fish take the piss. Give me a sedge feeder any day, please. At least until my casting gets better (it will I hope).

And each night it was quite different. First night some rises, very late on. Second night not much, despite apparently better conditions. Third night the best by a mile, as there were more flies on the water. Just shows how much you miss out on by fishing only once a week. Solution: fish every day.

If there are any folks reading that have never been to Scotland, or who know little about fishing in this lovely country, perhaps this post will give a wee suggestion of why I love it here so much.

On Saterday afternoon the weekend’s fishing took a turn for the hills. We were to head up a remote burn (that’s a small stream for anyone not from around here) and to a tiny wee lochan to fish for wild brownies.

This fellow had the cheek to ask for a permit. I gave him a superbly tied DHS and that seemed to bribe him enough.

Taking our time in the blazing heat of early afternoon we stopped off for ice cream and a visit to the nearest chippy. This would prove to be a sly move due to some ration issues later on. An hour or so later and we were leaving the car and heading up the burn. Occasional drifts of cloud were welcome relief for us and maybe the fish too.


My my this was a cracking little place. Places really, because everywhere you looked there was just great fishy fly water. We knew the fish would be small, but that was part of the joy. Brother was first tackled up and fishing a stunning wee plunge pool.


Almost straight away a wee trutta dashed out and tried to grab the size 18 sedge I had tied up a few nights before. A couple more drifts and another take. An absolutely rediculous fight ensued with the fish convinced he was some kind of giant lightening bolt.


Managed to calm him down for about 3 seconds, just time for a snap and away he went. At this stage I was about as excited as I have been for a long long time. I know some may find that a little odd given the modest size of the quarry, but for me burns are where it’s at. Along with the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere and these fish had probably never been fished for it was just wonderful. It’s not a way I feel that often and I savoured the moment. Things just felt perfect.

I opted for the “I’m a real man” approach and stuck on a tiny wee nymph. Time for some busy upstream nymphing practice. This was absolutely fantastic fun. At times it was a challange with the fast turbulent water but quite often the fish took the fly very obviously just under the surface, so that you could see a clear flash of the take.


As the picture shows the water was clear and swift. Great water for getting really close to likely lies and fishing with almost only the leader out the rod tip. And for a change I found that almost every likely lie held a fish, who would almost always have a go at the fly. Typical upland fishing this, and simply fantastic fun.


For me there could be no better way to introduce someone, of any age, to fly fishing than taking them to a burn like this. I think it gives you a great insight into what it’s really about, for me anyway. No pellets, no bag limits, no tailless misery. And to be honest, it sets out right away that fishing is about more than expectations of big easy fish. True, the trout in burns like this are not difficult to catch, as long as you approach the fishing with a modicum of stealth and cast carefully. Many times all we saw when approaching a pool were little brown topedoes bolting for cover. That sort of visual lesson soon gets learnt.


Amazingly the fishing seemed to get better the further up the burn we went. Many places it was one stride wide, and in such cases it was usually very obvious where the fish would be lying. Again brother managed the best fish, an absolutely stunning fish than just gleamed brown and gold in the afternoon sun.


There really not much I find more satisfying in life and fishing than seeing a fish like that caught from a remote little burn. He was maybe half a pound, but the fight he gave was just insane. Take a gander at that tail fin!


After a good few hours working our way up we managed to pull ourselves away and strike on for the loch. We needed some dinner and to set up the tent, and I was feeling paranoid about a possible midgy attack. Unbelievably I hardly saw a single midge in the end, even in the flat calm that descended on the loch around 9pm. The gods were really grinning on us this weekend.


We took a short excursion to watch the sunset over a distant loch before returning to fish into darkness. No monsters caught this time but I know they are there.

If you’ve never been to my country let me tell you there are hundreds and thousands of wee lochans and burns full of feisty little trout. Sometimes you just fish and watch the landscape and think life can be wonderful. The fishing is only part of the experience, but together with the hills and clear highland air it can be really special.
There are also some places with feisty big trout, but I’ll save those for another time.

It’s been a pretty fishy weekend. There was a bit of an epic fishathon planned up in the highlands with several pals. Things didn’t start well as Ali was struck down with the lurgy. I suppose the trip could have happened anyway, but like Queen without Freddy, things just weren’t going to be the same. Hopefully that trip will happen another time (unlike the Fredster).

Lost without our planned fishing mission we pondered staying behind and fishing our local stretches. But we were in an itchy feet kind of mood and hastily hacked together a plan for an alternative trip. There were going to be burns, lochs and heavy backpacks involved and maybe even a fish for tea.


First though things started with a wee evening session down our local urban river on Friday. Weather was hot and bright and rather July like. Once again a good few fish were moving, but once again the rising was a little sporadic. I winkled out a few small fish and lost one maybe 3/4lb. Fishing the sedge sedge sedge as usual.
Brother managed better with two around 3/4lb and lost another larger one. There were plenty of BWO male spinners around at one stage which isn’t something I’ve really seen much of on this river. Needless to say there wasn’t a particularly noticable spinner fall.


Next morning we took our time packing everything we could find in the northern half of Glasgow into our backpacks. That I can tell you is an achievement because they like their concrete cinder blocks in these parts.

Down to a river in the south of Scotland it was we went. Amazingly we were still in a rush to get to the river despite an apparently incredibly large quantity of time when we left home. This happens too often to me. Need to sort that out, though to be fair the ‘directions’ given by the ticket required a bit of Crystal Maze style mind juggling to work out.

Fishing was ok, though not great. The weather was again hot and bright. The fish got quite excited around half nine, but I couldn’t work out exactly what they were taking. Something small and just under the surface I think, possibly caenis.


Like most Scottish rivers (outside the NW highlands) there are usually some sea trout present at this time of year, so when it got dark I had a go swinging some big, dark flies through some pool tails.


This is a wooly bugger by the way. I love this fly. What a great name. I’ve never caught any trout with it, but then I’ve not fished it much. It tends to work its way onto my cast towards the end of a quiet fishing day when a certain despondancy moves in. I know this is not a fair way to fish such a successful fly. A pal of mine would tell me to fish it stripped past sunken trees, and he’d be right (he is about many fishing things I find).

Nothing showing, probably the lowish water or my crapness. One day I plan to give sea trouting a proper go. I’ve even got a book, so I must be serious. There’s also a plan to visit the moon, which is probably marginally less likely than me becoming good at this any time soon.

Still there was enough evidence of fish to make us want to come back, which I plan to do early next season. Hopefully there’ll be some March Browns milling around at that time, and maybe some proper sized olives..!


Dinner that night was noodles. Exciting stuff.

Todays guest is…

Here’s a contribution to the fishing diary from my brother.

Yesterday was a day of savage wind, which finally dropped at around7:30.  I was on the river by just gone 8, fishing a well-known stretchbut some less well-known pools.

In about two hours of fishing, six trout were landed from the 6-7 inchrange to a couple of half pounders, including this one:

It fell to a size 14 sedge.  I had seen the fish rise once at the headof a riffle-pool and took it on the first cast.  Really good fighter.That’s what I have noticed about the fish in this part of the river thisseason, all have fought hard and swam off with healthy power on release.Not surprising when you see the size of the tail fin.  It looks like abeavers’, which explains the power with which such a trutta can swim andmaintain itself in a fast current.

Moved upstream, catching here and there.  Was a brief hatch whichturned relatively sporadic rises into a kettle for a while, but for somereason a couple of larger fish would not be tempted by my flies.  Had to wadethrough a pool about 5 foot deep,  an experience made all the more spooky bythe encroaching blackness of the air.

Was a shame to lose a genuine big boy from a pool I’ve overlooked inthe past.  Lack of experience really, wasn’t sure how to play it once ithad run 40 feet downstream.  Guestimate towards 2lb, certainly 1 and a half.

All the fish fell to sedges.

I headed over to visit family in Glasgow this last weekend. Got there around half eight Friday evening and bolted straight out the door again, brother in tow, to get some fishing done. Still plenty light around at this time of year, though some dark clouds threatened us.


Actually it was the sort of evening I love. Moody with changing light, all very atmospheric. A nice rainbow (the kind we like on this river..!) promised us the fishing would be good.


Started down at a stretch I rather like after having something of a red-letter trip there last season. As ever the river provided us with some rising fish. On with the wee deer hair sedges and not long before the brother landed a pretty trutta.

Fish were in a strange mood this evening. Sometimes they splashed aggressively at the odd sedge, sometimes they barely broke the surface sipping something I couldn’t see. Needless to say I opted for the sedgey approach. Again I felt out of practice with wayward casts and general frustration. I also did my best to fall in for about the 5th time this season but somehow avoided doing so.

Fished late on and of course the fish were still moving a bit. At this time of year on this stretch you can get really close to the fish because the banks are high, provided it’s quite dark. Makes for exciting fishing with fish barely a rod tip away.


Had a couple fish to hand and a few more lost, so an enjoyable evening all round. Weather wasn’t really kind in fishing terms with the cool breeze. Given a balmy evening this stretch can be amazing with the fish nailing anything that looks like a sedge. I reckon I’ll try the old cork-fly later on this season.

Saterday was rather an off day weather wise, so we headed out on Sunday afternoon. Our fave wee tributary burns were out of action along with the main river so we went towards the source. Things didn’t look too promising when we got there with the river rather slow, brown and generally canal like. Hardly a lovely tumbling stream like some other stretches we know. After a good bit of laughter at our chances of catching we actually found a few fish starting to feed on a sparse hatch of small olives coming off around 4pm.

How expert does this fellow look?!

Brother fished a wee dirty duster (of my tying as usual) whilst I opted for a size 18 sedge-related offering. Very interesting actually watching the differences in the takes between these two flies. I’m pretty sure the fish were mostly taking the ascending olive nymphs just before emergence, and the dirty duster got takes almost the same as the normal rises. My sedge however received what I can only describe as ‘trout abuse’. I wonder if there’s such a thing as trout therepy because the aggression they showed was out of order.

Found this huge patch of nettles next to the river, just asking for an angler to take a stumble into them. This has happened to me a couple times before and caused mild stress…

On the way back I asked the some local cows if there were any hot flies for this stretch but they just grunted and kept on chewing. I’ve yet to meet a really good fly fishing cow, but you’d have thought that even the average ones had a favourite fly.

Now for part two of a few noodles on nymph fishing. I spent some more time reading Ollie Kite’s book and reckon I’m closer to crystalizing my thoughts a bit. The last post on this basically consisted of reasons why indicator fishing is dodgy. There are some genuine reasons that are pointed out in that web article I linked to, chief of which is that you actually miss quite a lot of takes because you’re so focused on only one bit of the line. To be a good nymph fisher I reckon one of the most important things is to be able to look everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The sign of the take could be so many things it seems a shame to limit yourself to robotic oogling of a float.
So, what makes proper nymph fishing different, and how is it done really well?

It’s a nymph party and you’re all invited..!

The absolute key to this is what Ollie describes as “informed anticipation”. If you cannot see the fish you are fishing to, as is almost always the case where I fish in the riffles of spate rivers, you must do the next best thing and that is to imagine the fish. Again this may sound pretentious/stupid or whatever, but having done this a bit I can honestly say it is absolutely central to becoming good at this. He puts it much better than I could:

“Try to anticipate the movement for striking by picturing in your mind not only what is going on beneath the water, whether you can see it or not, but by what you intend to cause to happen beneath the water.”

A really simple way of putting this into practice is suggested in that article where the author describes how he teaches people nymphing:

‘When I’m teaching short-line nymphing, I often tell the students, “Find a reason to set the hook sometime during this drift.” This helps them to intensify their concentration and to expect a strike instead of being surprised by a strike.’

Angry stonefly nymphs face each other off!

What I like so much about this way of fishing is that you are truly hunting the fish. Generally you don’t get away with the kind of lucky hookups that can come with swinging/winging wet flies, or even prospecting with dry flies. These are obviously great methods in their own right, but there’s just no way they require the same levels of skill and anticipation that come with good nymph fishing.

When you are really fishing a nymph properly I’ve never found anything else that so completely absorbs your concentration and tunes your senses. If you then actually catch a fish it’s a thrilling mix of “strewth I actually hooked one” and “how the hell did that happen” and “hmm I think I’m becomming a bit Buddhist”. A good couple of hours of fishing like this and I need a drink..!
I should point out that I realise it’s probably not kosher for a Buddhist to fish (afterlives etc etc), but hopefully it makes my point. Actually I bet a Tibetan monk could make a flipping brilliant nymph fisherman.

Even crappy nymphs like these work well. The Kitester would have been proud of that one on the top right ;)

So what all of this is trying to say is that good nymphing comes from serious concentration, anticipation and quick reactions. Shedloads of practice helps as well.


“Maybe I should have fished a nymph…”

Since this is really a kind of personal fishing diary I intend to ocasionally use it to voice any fishy thoughts I happen to be mulling over. That’s what this post is going to be like, so sorry if this is boring.

I had a really good chat with a pal of mine a few weeks ago. We talked nymphing. Of the dead drifted upstream shabang. Truth be told I quite often talk about this with the guy because he’s kind of a guru I reckon and I need to learn. I’ve been spending a bit of time this year practising this dark art and I feel I’ve just about done enough of it to have some ‘proper’ thoughts. This doesn’t mean I’m any good, actually it means I know I’m not. It’s just a case of trying to learn by listening closely to oneself’s own bullshit.

There are nymphs in there!

It’s a funny old business nymphing upstream you know. Unquestionably the most difficult of all river fly fishing skills, you basically just fish a dry fly with your eyes closed. Ok so that’s slightly exagerating the point, but not by much. What makes it truly testing and what is at the heart of the matter is that stuff also happens in 3D.

This guy is 3D, and he lives in 3D

Why is this important? Because to my mind almost everyone who fishes a nymph tries to find ways to avoid this fact, and to make life 2D. If you fish a great big indicator, it is a hell of a lot easier to start catching a few fish on the nymph. However, there is no way that you are becomming a really good nymph fisher this way. There’s essentially not much difference between this and fishing a dry: in fact that’s what it is, a way for dry fly people to fish a nymph without learn how to properly.

Look, no indicators!!

Does this matter? Not at all. Fish as one wills, the fish dinnae care. But to me, there just seems something a little cheap and half arsed about skipping out on properly learning this obviously fascinating branch of fly fishing. And by properly I mean to *know* the take without a globug on your leader. This is the great bit, the bit that makes me excited and mad in one go. Ollie Kite was aparently amazing at this, and reading his book has been really good fun and just a bit inspiring. How is it possible? Well another good place to start is here, followed by a good while on a river. Why am I obsessed by this stuff? I reckon it’s because to be good at this kind of fishing takes a serious pinch of zen. I’m not really there yet, but I’ve tasted the jam and it’s good. Rasberry…mmm.. There’s just something amazing about fishing up through a nice riffle and suddenly there’s a nice trout on your line and you don’t know quite how it got attactched. But you do really. You’ve reached the zen plain.

Been away for a few days on something of a break. Not much fishing, but plenty of other great stuff like hillwalking and windsurfing. Made this wee panorama of a nice remote hill loch.

Last weekend I met up with my pal Alistair, a pal of his and my wee broth, and we went fishing. Got to the river around 6 or 7, and noticed a good few blue winged olives (BWO) milling about.

Always a welcome sign are they. No sign a couple weeks ago but after a bit of prolonged warmth they’re now about. Some sedges flitting around as well; all in all a promising scene.

Again things were a wee bit tricky for a while there. Dropped off a fish in the first pool on an F-fly, then didn’t do much until later on. The blood (brother) was doing pretty damn well all night taking loads of fish on one of (my tied) deer hair sedges. Seriously, this is such a good fly. Piss easy to tie and so often very very effective on loch or burn.

Highlight of the night was Al’s pal who took this undersized fish from a cracking little pool on the far side of the river. I don’t know why the guy bothers such small fish. Really should leave them alone to grow on a bit.

Later on and the sedges were making an appearance on the water, signified by more splashy rises. Plenty wee fish on the sedge, though lost my only good fish who would have gone a pound or so.

Yes those are big bad sedge flies in that photo above!

Blood had this nice fish near the end, all in all a great night for the twerp.


Dunno why but the last few trips haven’t been as great for me as usual.. I don’t feel like I’m fishing as well as I should be and I seem to have too much other stuff on my mind (especially this trip…) Need to sort that out.

The weekend!

Well it’s nearly the weekend, so I’m desperately looking forward to getting out. The forecast seems ok for tomorrow in my haunts, so let’s hope there’s some kind of a hatch :)

Been some grand weather this week whilst I’ve been stuck at my desk..

Fishy photos

Well my pal sent me a few lovely pictures of our trip this weekend. There’s nothing like a lovely wild brownie to raise the spirits :)



An interesting day


Had an interesting days fishing yesterday. Was at one of my favourite stretches of river. Conditions seemed perfect: reasonably warmish, light winds, bit of sunshine, plenty of flies on the water. And how many fishing rising: I saw one splash all day. My mate saw a couple more rises, but it was really quiet. It seems like it’s been just too cold the last few weeks, and so the fish aren’t looking up yet. My friend (check out http://theriverkelvin.co.uk/blog/) caught a nice fish on a small grey Klink.

I later had a wee cracker on an Endrick spider. About a pound and a half to 3/4 or so I’d say. Beautiful fish. Photo later..