During May and early June my wife and I visited Singapore and Turkey, and then went on to England. The purpose of the England part of the trip was to see our daughter Emma, who went there to work in May 2000, and also for my wife to do family history research for her next book. For me, Emma and I both like Thai food and good wine, so it promised to be an exciting trip.
Being subject to airline restrictions regarding weight, I decided not to take any fishing gear.
Whilst in England I stayed part of the time with my sister Helen at Market Bosworth, which is within driving distance of Thornton Reservoir and Rutland Water (both well-stocked trout reservoirs). At the same time, my wife went off to do some of her family history research.
As my sister (like myself) is an avid bird watcher, we drove over one day to Rutland Water to see their newly-established Osprey colony. (Ospreys are very shy birds, and trying to establish a colony from about one hundred and twenty birds already nesting in Scotland is proving a delicate and at times frustrating process).
The Ospreys weren’t around that day, but I noticed several boats on Rutland Water appearing to contain optimistic fishermen. However, there were no signs of any fish being caught.
An unexpected side-effect of this was that I got a sudden attack of fly-fishing withdrawal, so the following day I went across to Burton-on-Trent (Mullarkey and Sons) and bought a six piece, nine foot long, #6/7, Shakespeare Travellers fly rod, the lightest fly reel I could find, line and some flies. I was determined to try my luck on either Thornton Reservoir or Rutland Water.
By this time, having only three days left with my sister, I confidently expected on one of those days to get the opportunity to try for some of the large trout that these waters are well known for.
However the English weather intended otherwise, and while I was trying out my new gear on my sister’s lawn, the wind started blowing at about thirty to forty mph (miles per hour: the English are stubborn and won’t convert to metric unless they absolutely have to), and this wind didn’t abate for the next two weeks, blowing steadily day and night. Even my sister couldn’t recall a windy period like it. To make things worse, the wind was accompanied by long periods of rainy weather. What else can one expect knowing the English climate! (This really is all true - it isn’t a lot of hot air - just cold damp windy air.)
To cut a long story short, the wind blew and blew, and I didn’t manage to go fishing, but I did have some lovely new gear to carry around. I also bought a Stonefly portable fly-tying outfit, which is very light, except for the base-plate. This weighs about two kilograms, and came close to making a hole in the bottom of my hand luggage!
From England we flew to the Channel Islands, which have an enormous tidal range, something like: high tide 10.7 metres; low tide 1.5 metres. (these islands used to be French, so they use real units of measurement). To see the sea in Jersey, one has to be around at high tide, otherwise it virtually disappears out of sight.
We were only on Jersey for two days, but again I got the fly-fishing bug! The local fishing tackle dealer said English bass could be caught everywhere, including just behind the breaking waves, where one could even see their fins breaking the surface of the water. He sold me some local flies, saying dawn and dusk are the best times to fish, and suggested a beach about three kilometres from our hotel, which was certain to yield a fish or two (or more) at dawn.
Only having one day left on Jersey, I decided to get up before sunrise the next day and try my luck.
Up at 4am, full of enthusiasm, Thai food, and a bit too much white wine (and smelling a bit like the back lane of a Bangkok food alley), I ventured forth in my usual Shoalhaven Heads/Seven Mile Beach fishing gear of shorts, shirt and sneakers, supplemented by a good English overcoat. Fortunately the only other people around at that time were Council road sweepers. With my wispy wand of a rod in hand, I got some mighty strange looks.
After walking (to keep warm) the three kilometers to the beach, I looked around for the sea and sure enough there it was: on the horizon about one kilometre away - it was low tide!
Not to be beaten, I took my sneakers off and doggedly trudged across the sand until I got to the water’s edge. Remembering the advice that the bass were there, just beyond the waves (which fortunately were about three inches high) I waded out to start fishing. It was then that I realized that not only was visibility in the water down to about two inches, but that the water was full of a filmy sort of weed, and even worse, the water temperature was about 8 degrees C. When I lifted up my feet to have a look at them, they had gone bright red. I also couldn’t feel them.
I then began to wonder if I’d gone to the wrong beach, as I certainly couldn’t see any fins carving up the water!
To avoid frost bitten feet, and to ensure surviving to make it for our return flight home later that day, I reluctantly did that unthinkable British thing, and gave up. (My upper lip was stiff with cold anyway).
So I trudged back up the beach, put my sneakers back on, and walked the three kilometers back to the hotel (more people giving me more strange looks by now). I got back into bed, and would have liked to put my feet on the wife’s tummy to get warm (it was still only 6 am - her response would have been interesting!). Unfortunately (for me), she sleeps in a separate bed due to having problems with Meniere’s syndrome.
Lying in bed (on my own) and pondering the lack of fish and my cold feet, I came to the conclusion that Pommies can’t be as tough as Aussies (though a lot wiser), and surely must wear gumboots or waders to do their fishing.
The moral of this report – plan your fishing in England better than I did!
Dave
Vale