Memories of……Opening Days – Part 2

Memories Are Made Of………Opening Days of the 1960’s – Part Two, Trout Fishing

IN PART ONE I recalled my youthful excitement at fishing for tench on the ‘Glorious 16th June’. But back in the 1960’s and 1970’s what did we do to fill the void that existed between March and June?

Catch trout, that’s what! Or at least try to.

Another opening day became a tradition

Chew Valley reservoir, my first fly fishing gear and tying flies

Back then another opening day became a tradition. This time it was the mighty Chew Valley reservoir south of Bristol with its huge expanse of water offering us relief in the coarse fishing closed season. Together with its partner Blagdon it introduced me to fly fishing and formed the backdrop for many excellent adventures and created a lot of happy memories.

I had never really been interested in fly fishing, never quite got the bug, but then one year, still a kid, my uncles said I could tag along as they headed west for ‘The Opening Day’.

In advance I was kitted out with an appropriate rod, reel and line, shown the basics and how to join something called ‘Backing’ to something else called a ‘Shooting Head’ and then told to “go away and practice”.

Rainbow trout

This I did, I was the only member of our football team to take his fishing gear to training! Once we’d finished with the football I’d be out on the field casting to imaginary rainbow trout and thrashing the grass to a foam!

Many evenings were spent in the fishing shed watching Mick and Ron tie the flies, lures really, big Black Tandems, Marabous and Baby Dolls with different coloured tags. I tied a few but they never really looked as good as theirs. I also practised the needle knots required to join the shooting heads and fly lines to the backing and was more than chuffed when Ron asked me to sort his out for him! I was also introduced to a whole new world of ‘Sink Tip’, ‘Weight Forward’, ‘Double Taper’, etc, etc.

On the No. 32 bus to Nunnery Point

Eventually the day arrived and although I again turned up at Mick’s house a few hours early, I at least travelled in style on the Number 32 Bus! Of course Nan provided the customary ‘minced #beef followed by bananas’ and then we were off. This time it was in Ron’s Hillman Minx with big bench seats and column gear shift; ultimate luxury!

Brown trout

Two hours plus of country road driving would eventually see us pass through East and West Harptree and apparently arrive at our destination. Somewhere out there in the dark our quarry lay, just waiting for us put a lure in front of their noses!

The usual plan was to arrive a couple of hours before dawn, meeting up with our mates and allowing enough time to stake out our places on the favoured area known as ‘Nunnery Point’. We would then prepare for the ensuing battle with rainbows, browns and the Welsh from across ‘The Bridge’!

On guard!

It seems there was a similarly minded group from ‘The Valleys’ who also headed for the same patch of bankside vegetation. I was led to believe there may be ‘a bit of a race’ for the prime spots and we must stake out our claim with our landing nets (doubling up as wading sticks).

Having arrived first, I and another kid, Paul, were charged with the job of protecting our territory while the rest of our group got the gear ready and set about preparing breakfast. Paul and I both took this responsibility very seriously! At least on the first trip we did. With about a dozen of our nets staked out at generous intervals on the bank, we heard another group noisily making its way down towards us in the dark. Paul and I looked around for support but there was nobody to be seen! What turned out to be the advance party from Wales came towards us speaking in strange tongues and then, when they reached us, burst out laughing! They couldn’t hold out any longer, Paul and I had been set up. It turned out these guys were old acquaintances and regularly joined in at Chew, not just on opening day, but at other times as well. They just slotted in amongst us! On later trips over several years it happened again and again, all depending on who arrived first. I now wonder what the locals thought of it all.

Waiting for first light and the splash of a fish

The anticipation waiting for first light was incredible. The occasional splash of a fish, or was it a stone being thrown in by some joker? The noise of a lake waking up, the banter of the ever increasing number of anglers and the smell emanating from the basic loo in the hut, even so early on the first day!

Eventually, light would begin to break and the first impatient angler would carefully wade out and start casting, very quickly followed by the rest of us, except on that first trip! I vividly recall just standing there thinking “How the hell do I catch fish from there? It’s huge! You expect me to wade out 10 feet and cast a maximum of 15 yards? I can barely see the far bank and certainly can’t figure where the lake (ocean) starts and finishes!”

Casting at Chew Reservoir

I must have looked a right sight because several of the group just laughed a knowing laugh and told me to “get in here”. Opening day or not, ordinarily it would have been a mighty challenge to catch from such an expanse of water but thanks to Bristol Waterworks stocking policy of just 1 or 2 huge introductions each season our chances of hooking into a stocky were quite good!

Getting the timing right

The intensity of the first few casts was severe as everyone worked to get their timing right and get the lures out there in good order. In reality most of the guys, especially me, only managed to get the business end to land in an ungainly heap of fur, feather and nylon! In truth I was lucky to get that far as, at best, most of my early casts usually resulted in great tufts of grass attached to the lure, or worse, hooked up on the bank behind me! It was these early forays into the fly casting world that taught me the value of wearing the appropriate head gear, if only to protect me from the constant threat of lassoing myself!

And then the first fish was hooked to a Mexican wave

Soon enough the first fish would be hooked, greeted by a chorus of expletives not usually heard by someone so young. Hopefully, that first fish would herald a Mexican wave of rod tips bent into action working their way towards you. That first year such a wave happened as the guy several rods to my right hooked into a hard fighting rainbow. In sequence each rod went over in response to a vicious take and then it was my turn. The take was quite gentle but definite, I connected to my first Chew Valley fish and clawed back the line as fast as I could strip. But something was wrong, it didn’t crash out of the water or rip line from my fingers as I had been told to expect, it came in quietly and without any real power. That first 2lb Perch was a big disappointment!

I got my first trout, but my casting…

Eventually I did get my first Chew rainbow, quickly followed by my first brown trout. Both were over 3lbs and splendid fish. I was hooked on this version of our great sport. My biggest lesson, that first year, was tie your flies correctly! I lost several good fish on tandem lures I’d tied myself. Although chuffed to bits to catch on my own flies, I had not crimped the nylon between the two hooks and certainly not whipped them tightly enough. Each time I came back with just the forward hook of the tandem!

Learning to cast

In those early days I tried in vain to match the casting distance achieved by some of our group. These guys could cast and what’s more, their lure would roll out in a perfect arc. All too often, in an effort to achieve those apparently vital extra feet, I would wade out just that little bit too far and gain a wader full. I eventually learnt that distance wasn’t everything and was constantly amazed to find fish following and occasionally taking under the rod tip. In such a case, all hell would break loose with backing and line invariably getting in an awful mess and conspiring to make controlling the fish an impossibility.

Makeshift line trays

We used to strip the line into the landing net but found it used to tangle far too often. One year I fondly recall one of our number turning up with a pink washing up bowl attached to his waist by way of a belt and stripping the line into it. He was subject to much derision and laughter but by the next trip, many had copied or improved on his design and our version of a line tray had been born.

Some of our group would reach the individual limit of eight fish by late morning, which was handy, as around about that time most of the guys seemed to need some sleep. Paul and I would often be the only ones still fishing as, one by one our group netted their final fish. This would always trigger the same reaction. Stagger up the bank, park the rods against the hut and collapse in a heap on the grass! Unfortunately I’ve lost the photograph of about 20-plus anglers stretched out on the grass looking for all the world as though there had been some kind of ghastly massacre.

Then onto the finer arts of chalk stream fishing

Those first few trips to Chew and Blagdon only showed me one aspect of reservoir trout fishing. I did go on to sample the delights of Rutland, Grafham and the like and those experiences eventually led me to the finer arts of chalk stream fishing with the more traditional imitations.

Again, I owe my uncles and that great crowd of blokes an awful lot as they opened my eyes to a much wider range of fishing experiences.