Yorkshire Post - Country Week
2008 Fly Fishing Monthly Articles
Since April 2005 Roger Beck and Stephen Cheetham produce a fly fishing column in the Country Week section of the Yorkshire Post once a month.
Go back to the 2005 articles Go Back to the 2006 articles Go back to the 2007 articles
Here are the monthly articles, published in 2008, which we trust you will enjoy reading:
Griffiths Gnat James Chetham Black Gnat Sweet William Woolly Bugger Egg Fly
Griffiths Gnat
If you ignored the advice proffered in the November column, you've been holding your breath for the last couple of months. By now, you must be rather red in the face. If it's any consolation to you, I am similarly afflicted; not for the same reason though. My florid features are entirely as a consequence of acute embarrassment.
Back in November, having extracted the Michael from the southerners, I sort of suggested that I would never fish the hallowed chalkstreams of Hampshire. Well, the southerners have called my bluff, or to be precise, one of them has. I'm not sure how this came about, maybe a copy of the Yorkshire Post found its way to Shropshire. Whatever the explanation, shortly after publication of the November column, I received a call from my old friend Charles Jardine, though he prefers the term "long standing". Mercifully, I was sitting down when he said "how would you like to spend a day on the river Test with me?" "You're having me on" was my first response. "Not at all, I believe that it is time to complete your education" was the immediate reply.
So, it came to pass that in early December, passport in hand, I went forth and travelled many a long mile to Hampshire. In case you don't realise, that's south of the Trent. I was not allowed to drive the last part of the journey, Charles decided that I was far too agitated to be safe. We left a minor road through a gate and followed a flint-strewn track to a stand of trees. I clambered from the car and walked the last few steps to the river. The weather was appalling, it was raining stair rods and the wind gusted and swirled around me. Despite that, the sight before me was truly awesome. I have seen some splendid stretches of river, both here and abroad, in both hemispheres. Hand on heart, I have never seen such a magnificent sight as that which unfolded before me. Here stood I, on the banks of the famous, revered river Test. The water was like a meandering ribbon of liquid crystal, fronds of bright green weed writhing rhythmically in the flow. Even as I watched, eyes widening by the moment, a shaft of winter sun materialised from the heavens, pierced the grey clouds and, for a brief moment, bathed the whole scene in liquid gold. The bare stems of the willows shone against the lichen encrusted thatch on the roof of the white hexagonal fishing hut. Here, each beat on the river boasts it's own little piece of rural architecture, misleadingly named a hut.
Large dark olives, those harbingers of red-letter winter fishing days, scurried over the ruffled river, tumbled along by the squally breeze. Then I noticed the fish, what monsters they were, materialising from shadows as they ate those olives as if their very lives depended upon them, as indeed they do. I kid you not; I was gob smacked.
I pulled on my waterproofs, fingers all thumbs, and slowly assembled rod and line. Even at this stage, had Charles informed me that it was a scam and that all I could do was to sit and watch him fish, I honestly would not have cared. Of course, he did no such thing. I generally take my fishing very seriously, but today my heart and my soul were imbued with the splendour and angling tradition that surrounded me. I enjoyed my fishing and the most perfect grayling of the day fell to my Griffith's gnat, but I was distracted. With concentration I could have doubled my catch. I simply did not care. This wonderful place deserved my distraction from the process of fishing.
So, thanks to Charles, I now need a long lie down to recover from my new-found admiration for the south and southerners. It will take several months and I plan to do it in New Zealand. So, I shall leave you in Steve's safe hands whilst I try to recover from this strange affliction.
Happy New Year, I'll update you in April.
Flies dressed by Stephen Cheetham. 0113 2507244. www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk
Narrative by Roger Beck 01439 788483. www.beckfisher.co.uk
James Chetham Black Gnat
Last year I turned that corner in my life where 60 years seems to have flown and like some of you, maybe, I often wonder about my ancestors. I come from an old Yorkshire family who had Goodalls Saddlery and fishing tackle shop in Shipley which was established in the 1800’s. I can still remember, as a young lad, standing gawping for many hours at the array of hooks, lines, flies and rods. I still recall the fascination of putting my hands into a gallon bucket of maggots, the feel of them wriggling between my fingers, and the smell of leather, hen and dog food - ah happy days.
My mother, who is 92 now, still suddenly throws names at me – Greenwells Glory, Allcocks, Millwards, Partridge, Hardy Brothers. Close interrogation of my Mum reveals that I am related to Oliver Cromwell and Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy fame. Pocahontas has also been mentioned but I choose to ignore that, sorry Mum.
You can imagine my surprise some time ago when I came across the name of James Chetham who wrote a book about fly fishing in 1681. Could this be an ancestor? I doubted if there was a book available, but investigation on the Internet showed that a facsimile edition was available from the Chetham Library.
James Chetham was born in Lancashire, of all places. His book The Angler's Vade Mecum according to the Chetham Library “Is universally agreed to be one of the most significant works on the subject, his descriptive account of the art and science of fly-fishing is written with experience, clarity, and an acerbic wit”. First published anonymously in 1681, the volume deals with every aspect of the sport, containing his observations on the most commonly encountered fish, descriptions of the flies to be used each month, and an appreciative chapter on roasting, broiling, or stewing one's catch, which even includes an 'excellent French bread to eat fish with'.
The book I managed to obtain is a facsimile, (reprinted in 2005 by the Chetham library), of the third edition printed for William Battersby in 1700. As the extended title of the book tells me, his work discusses “the aptest methods and ways, exactest rules, properest baits, and choicest experiments for the catching all manner of fresh water fish, together with a brief discourse of fish-ponds, and not only the easiest, but most palatable ways of dressing all sorts of fish whether belonging to rivers or ponds; and the laws concerning angling, and the preservation of such fish”.
He goes into great detail about hazel rods and horse hair lines, the tying of the fly (which confused me first time I read it and still does to be honest) not forgetting the flies were tied without a vice or eye to the hook. He stresses the importance of the size of hook and the colour of materials some of which we will have problems obtaining today.
The book draws to a close with chapters about the angling laws and the preservation of fish, and then to cap it all he gives recipes on how best to cook all types of fish which Nigella Lawson would be proud of.
Well done great, great, great…. Uncle James. A very interesting and meaningful reference book, even if, for coarse fishing to keep my worms in tip top condition I have to “take the bones or skull of a dead man, at the opening of the grave, and beat the same into powder, and put this powder into moss wherein you keep your worms, but others like grave earth as well” I will stick to fly fishing thank you.
I decided to have a go at the James Chetham Black Gnat and followed the tying instructions as well as I could with the materials he used. Surprisingly a very drab but neat fly was the result, an absolute killer according to James, so I shall certainly be giving it a try this spring.
Fly and narrative by Stephen Cheetham 0113257244 www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk
Sweet William fly - Norman Greenwood
As you are reading this, Roger Beck our Lord of the Flies is down under in Lord of the Rings territory in New Zealand enjoying a well earned holiday and also celebrating his 60th birthday. Happy Birthday Roger, and many more of them.
You will have gathered from reading our fly of the month column that we anglers are some of the nicest, most helpful and cheeriest people you could ever wish to meet by the waterside. Well most of us anyway!
Once in a while one person stands head and shoulders above us all. Sadly, last year we lost one of those characters.
Norman Greenwood was a gentleman in every sense of the word, a fanatical fly fisher, an innovative and knowledgeable fly tyer and a man who had time for everyone. Many was the time I bumped into Norman at Steve Bielby’s shop in Otley to be greeted with a smile followed by a lengthy discussion on the attributes and tying of certain flies. He also always made a point of visiting me and my wife at our stand at Pateley Bridge Show, although I am sure he was also very busy demonstrating his tying methods in the next tent on the Nidderdale Angling Club stand.
Norman, as I have said, was a fanatical fly fisherman, with a caravan near his beloved river Nidd. He was a stalwart member of the Nidderdale Angling Club and appeared on Yorkshire Television’s Dales Diary demonstrating his art on the banks of the river. He will also be sadly missed at the Leeds branch of the Fly Dressers Guild where for many years he was a committed and dedicated secretary. I am sure his infectious laughter and sense of humour enhanced many meetings.
One fly that Norman will always be remembered for is the Sweet William, a firm favourite of those that fish the Nidd. He first tied The Sweet William in 1979, as a development of the John Storey, that famous North Yorkshire Fly which Roger and I discussed in this column back in July 2005; gosh that seems a long time ago!
Norman named it “Sweet” to represent the honey hackle used in the tying, and “William”, after his late father, John William Greenwood, who he was sure would have loved to have fished it. Apparently Norman found that it out-fished the John Storey regularly, although on the occasional day, the John Storey would still overrule.
The peacock herl
body, as in the John Storey, remained the same, as did the “sail” style wing
over the eye. The enhancements that Norman made were to add golden pheasant
crests together with a few strands of red floss for a tail. He then varied the
hackle colour, honey through to red game cock, to suit the hatching insects. He
would vary the fly size according to the time of year and the fly hatch, size 10
to 12 for mayflies or size 14 for the other up-winged flies.
From personal experience I do know that this fly is a superb performer on the
river Nidd and on many of our other northern rivers. I took guidance from Norman
about the best way to fish the fly and have always followed his advice that it
should be cast up and across, at some angle to the river flow. Norman advocated
that this ensures that the first thing the fish sees is the fly and not the
leader!
I am sure that all of you who are reading this and who knew Norman will join me in saying a huge thank you to him for just being Norman and to send our belated condolences to his wife and family.
Woolly Bugger
It's just called the Tongariro river on the map. Everyone who fishes it knows it as the mighty Tongariro, because it just is. Said river flows more or less due north and enters Lake Taupo near Turangi on the North Island of New Zealand. Imagine a river 100 yards wide, as clear as the Wharfe in high summer. Up to the knees and you can really feel the push of water; waist deep and it's difficult to keep your feet, even if you have a low centre of gravity. Deeper than that does not bear thinking about. Get the picture?
Ian Jenkins is a professional guide on the Tongariro; his offer to fish with me on the river was too good to refuse, well nearly. With a completely serious face, Ian told me to be at his house, next to the river by 5.00 am. Now, I don't do 5.00 am. as quite a number of people will tell you. "We need a fish on the bank by breakfast" declared Ian. So I just nodded. When in Rome… I have no idea what happened between getting up and getting there, but I arrived at Tui Lodge, Ian's place, at the appointed time. By 5.30 we were by the Major Jones pool and it was nearly light.
It was early March and the rainbow trout of Lake Taupo were running the river to the spawning grounds. They were highly aggressive, Ian informed me. So, all I needed to do was to arrange for my fly to pass within sight of a fish, the fish would attack the fly and I would be in business. The best fly for the job, apparently, was a black woolly bugger; good news because Steve sent one out to New Zealand in my birthday card; bless him. The only slight problem was that the trout were lying in tiny depressions in the river bed over six feet down in the Mighty Tongariro. So, there I was, 5.45 am., up to the waist in raging water, aiming at a scrape in the bottom of the river that was about twenty yards down stream. It certainly concentrates the mind. The good news was that Ian knew the location of every single lie and was giving me directions from over my left shoulder. By the way, those folk who are conversant with fly casting might wish to know that it was decreed that the leader needed to be 20 feet long so that the fly could sink. Personally, I thought that Ian was having a laugh, but I dare not argue. The length and angle of the cast must be judged to perfection so that, just as the fly reaches the correct depth, the current swings it in front of the fish. Just try it, that's all I can say!! After a few attempts, accompanied by a couple of expressions that do not translate into Kiwi, something grabbed my fly and set off with the flow. Now, I know full well that there are no crocodiles in New Zealand, but at 6.00 am that morning I was prepared to believe that I'd hooked one. I could just hear my mentor's voice over the screaming of the reel. "Get to the bank before it pulls you over. If it does, just lie back in the water and go with the flow. You'll wash up on the next gravel bar." I'm not going to repeat my brief reply. I floundered to the shore, rod held above my head to keep the water pressure off the singing line. That fish was very, very angry and only slowly did I bring it to Ian's waiting net. A huge grin broke across his weather beaten face as 5lbs. of sparkling, wild rainbow trout slid over the rim. "There we go", he chuckled, "one in the net by breakfast time". I am ashamed to say that I forgot myself and muttered something about strange Kiwi habits and eating breakfast in the middle of the night. However, I quickly regained my composure, mimicked my guide's huge grin, pumped his hand in gratitude and set off in search of another fish. We found some, but that's another story.
Flies dressed by Stephen Cheetham. 0113 2507244. www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk
Narrative by Roger Beck 01439 788483. www.beckfisher.co.uk
Egg Fly
When fly-casting, it is really important to draw the line from the water gently and gradually with no jerky movements, otherwise the rod is not loaded smoothly, resulting in a failure of the line and leader to extend properly.
If I come out with this statement during one of my casting classes, you have my permission to scoff.
In the company of Ian Jenkins, I caught my first rainbow trout, on a woolly bugger from the Tongerero River on the North Island of New Zealand. It was just light as we made our way down stream. I could see ridges of shingle and pebbles, last winter's flood debris that squeezed the river into a channel, increasing the flow and deepening the water. Here, Ian proclaimed, we would fish the egg fly. It represents a fish egg, which rainbows eat enthusiastically. Ian cut off the leader and replaced it with another one, about twenty feet long. Now, twenty feet of leader is not easy to cast, but I had a plan, see above. Ian fumbled in his fly box; he produced a funny hairy thing, about an inch long, with a tungsten dumbbell lashed across the front of it, mounted on the kind of hook that my granddad used for curing hams. The whole contraption weighed about a quarter of an ounce. He then spirited a little egg fly from somewhere and tied this with a length of nylon to the bend of the meat hook. Hey Presto! The so-called New Zealand dropper. From another pocket materialised a tuft of bright green polypropylene, which would give good service as a shaving brush. This, he tied to the end of the fly line, some seven yards away from the egg fly. It was a sound idea. The water is so deep and fast flowing that the weight of the bug-eyed monster is required to take the little egg fly to the bottom of the river. A lengthy leader ensures that it reaches the correct depth. Finally, when a trout bolts off with the egg fly, the buoyant polypropylene shuttlecock disappears and the angler can lift into the fish. It occurred to me, however, that this business about: "It is really important to draw the line from the water gently and gradually with no jerky movements" was looking a bit questionable due to a small intercontinental missile fixed to the other end. By the way, the lump of yarn behaves a bit like a sail when it is launched through the air, making the whole lot stall in mid flight and causing it to land roughly where it set off from. Bottom line? Casting this fiendish fly on a long leader aint easy.
I then noticed the grin on Mr. Jenkins' face and realised that something was afoot. I followed the direction of his grin to see five of his mates materialise atop one of the shingle banks, all professional Kiwi fishing guides. Someone had tipped them the wink that there might be the chance of a bit of fun. They had all turned out to watch the professional Pommie guide whilst he sacrificed his dignity and reputation, flailing about like a demented windmill, attempting to hurl this evil assembly across the water with a fly rod. Totally forsaking all that "delicately sliding the line from the water" bunkum, I gathered myself and remembered the advice from one of my mentors concerning casting with weighty flies. "Yank it up to the surface and chuck it as high in the air as you can. Then, whack the rod tip forwards and hope that it doesn't smack you on the head" So, I did just that. On the fourth attempt, the whole lot sailed across the river and plopped into the water in a most satisfactory manner. Six Kiwi guides clapped and cheered, slapped me on the back and then dug up the bottles of beer that were hidden, cooling, amongst the pebbles. By now, it was nearly 7 am. so it seemed rude to refuse a little light refreshment.
I've no idea if the egg fly worked.
Flies dressed by Stephen Cheetham. 0113 2507244. www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk
Narrative by Roger Beck 01439 788483. www.beckfisher.co.uk
© Copyright 2007 Stephen Cheetham, Roger Beck, Yorkshire Post Newspapers.