I’m currently reading John Gierach’s ‘Trout Bum’, a book full of short tales and shenanigans, from commando fishing, camp coffee, to ghosts. It’s all covered in this beautifully written book.

The more I read this book, the more I can relate to his tales (and laughed out loud on several occasions!).

A true classic, and the wisdom and love for fly fishing which John conveys certainly does touch your heart. A brilliant book…and a classic I’m embarrassingly late in finding!

For those of us who breathe, drink, eat, sleep, and constantly think ‘Fly Fishing’, this book is a must!

A trout stream should be approached with a degree of reverence, for practical as well as aesthetic reasons: if you jump out of the truck after five hours on the road and hop into the stream, you’ll not only wade right through a pod of rising fish, but will probably fall down and get your ass wet, too. Be calm – you’re there. Squint at the sky, sniff the air, listen to the water. Tell yourself there’s no rush, even if there is.

- John Gierach: Trout Bum (chapter: The Adams Hatch)

Check out Trout Bum and John Gierach’s other books by clicking here or on the above image. Enjoy!

With fishing of late primarily focused either on the grayling of the lower Taff or the wild browns of the Upper Neuadd, I feel I have been neglecting the beauty of the upper stem of the Taff system.

Beauty, true wilderness, and escapism with a fly rod. Perfect. Perfect for revitalising the soul after a long day stuck behind a desk rebuilding PCs or reviewing IT protocols and procedures.

Yesterday evening I returned to the upper river which, over this past season, has lodged itself firmly in my heart. The fish: cunning and wily as they have had to rely on their own power of endurance to survive (as a result, they are far from easy to catch). The place: the word ‘beautiful’ must have first been spoken here. Truly inspiring.

Picture the scene: walking parallel to a small freestone stream, passing a waterfall which plunges into a perilously deep gorge, its deafening roar making you grin slightly at the thought of the evenings fishing to come.

Walking along a path (which has obviously been cut more by the animals that graze there than by our fellow anglers or hill walkers) you see the thick canopies and jungle-like wild Brecon Beacon trees in front of you; the beautiful Taf Fechan winking enticingly at you from between it’s branches.

Crawling through brambles, trees, and bushes, you reach the spot you wish to fish…only to have to do more crawling over the rocks and pebbles whilst in the water in order to get into a suitable casting position.

Here the fish are generally small, perfectly formed visions of flawlessness. They measure (on average) 6 inches, although I know where a few ‘pounders’ live (that secret, however, will leave my lips on my death bed!). Small brook rods are the name of the game here; I use a 7′ 3wt, although even this is sometimes too big!

Purely opportunistic feeders, the fish tend to take anything small that is presented to them, however, herein lies our problem.

Always is the case on arriving at these waters, I find my senses dull and blunt, forgetting the true nature of these fish and exactly how hard (and mentally exhausting) previous visits to these wild waters have been. A wrong footfall or messy cast will always put these wild fish down, and more often than not (due to the thickness of the tree canopies), you find your self in the water, on your knees casting no more than three meters of line. You can’t hide behind any bushes or rocks due to the thick canopy/corridor of fly loving trees which cover both banks; instead the angler has to creep as slowly and as quietly as they can, sneaking up behind a rise…in position? Wait…if he rises again (and if you haven’t already spooked him)…cast.

Anyway, where was I, ah yes…

After sitting calmly for 10 minutes, enjoying the warm sun and sounds of the river after a day at the office, a trout rises on the far bank. Inspections into fly activity draw me to the olive parachute compartment of my fly box. A nice #20 olive paradun will do the trick…a simple back cast and…damn…I’ve caught that bloody tree again. The trout, having noticed the angler as he stands up to retrieve his fly, is well and truly ‘off’.

After ten minutes of chastisement on the stream’s bank, hiding well back from the water, and slightly out of view behind a rock or bush, there’s another rise. Patience and something like ‘wisdom’ (yes, I do shine now and again) tells the angler to stay down until another rise is seen…or even better…two!

Into its third rise, the angler gains enough courage to attempt another cast…this time understanding his quarries’ temperament as he crawls oh so slowly (even painfully) towards the water. Not wanting to move more than an inch a minute, a cast is finally made 3ft above the rise. Presentation is just right (if I do say so myself), the tiny artificial fly floating perfectly downstream and as free as any of its natural cousins currently caught in the food lane; and, I might add, carrying it dangerously close to a feeding wild trout.

Then the world becomes a fish.

A gaping white mouth envelopes the fly with lightning speed and a small splash, creating what can only be described as an ‘OH SHIT!’ moment as it easily pulls the line from between your fingers. Fighting to stay in control of a 13” wild monster attached to the end of 7X tippet (the 7’ #3wt rod making a lovely gentle curve) is slightly disconcerting!

At last, and after a 20 second fight, you have the most beautiful of fish gently cradled in your hand. As you hold it respectfully in the recuperating flow of the oxygenated water and remove the barbless hook, the wild monster darts away to sulk for an hour or two. He (or more likely she) has lost this round.

After experiencing the power of a true wild brown trout (thirteen inches of it, and in a small stream!), you feel that your legs are somewhat shaky, and your heart (for some reason) has trouble returning to a normal beat. You suddenly feel like you’re 80 years old. A ten minute sit down is required!

To visit this place is truly inspiring, and one always feels invigorated and fresh after the event (that is, once you recover from all the gnat bites, cuts from thorns, bruised knees, etc). Never have I seen another angler in these parts whilst out fishing, and you have a sense of being totally alone in this beautiful landscape; a rare experience these days.

I arrived back at the car well into dark, having had a few funny looks from passers by as an individual clad in waders and headlight emerges from a forest at 10:30pm…with a well and truly exhausted expression on his face.

Then I’m home, in bed, and sleeping…reliving the fishing trip and remembering that huge battle of wits with the 13” monster all over again.

A few more images from my evening:

Checking the various UK and US fly fishing blogs at this time of year always produces the same thing…everyone’s out fishing! With more fishing comes less writing, which I myself fall victim too every year.

At this time of year blog posts are short, to the point affairs, with only the most respectable blogs able to produce regular posts, rich in story and with a zealousness we’ve come to love within their words.

So, I would like to give a little praise to whose blogs which I admire and read on a regular basis. I hold all of the links under the Blogroll section to the right-hand side of this page in great esteem (this goes for all the web sites I link to). All are worth your regular attention, as they are all fantastic in their own different ways.

Some offer short ‘to-the-point’ affairs. Some portray magical journey’s into a day’s fishing, detailing all the wonderful memories. All, however, are excellent.

Also, if it wasn’t for one of these blogs (Urban Fly Fisher) I doubt I would ever have been inspired to create Fly Fishing in South Wales. Urban Fly Fisher is truly an exceptional blog, bursting with the humour and fishy tales that our sport and addiction deserves. Also (if I remember correctly), it was the first blog dedicated to fly fishing in the world, and I’ve also had the pleasure of fishing with it’s author.

When the trout season ends this year and the off-season panic sets in (and if you don’t fancy fishing in the freezing cold for grayling), grab a cuppa, sit back in the warm and give them a read…there is a treasure chest of fishing tales to trawl through.

Enjoy.

“A big fish will generally eat a big fly”…just watch the evidence from the AEG guys.

The size of their streamers are the size of small dogs…but then, the fish they catch are the size of very large ones!

Rain, it’s great isn’t it? So great in fact, that we’ve been blessed with a magnitude not seen for quite a while in God’s own South Welsh Valleys.

With so much of the wet stuff battering us over the last week, the Taff is currently 3’ higher than normal in some places, and so fishing has taken a side seat to laminate flooring, shelving, erecting curtain rails, moving TVs and sofas, and has seen me drilling, hammering, screwing (with a screwdriver), sawing, etc.

With the girlfriend’s new place decorated to perfection thanks to yours truly, you’d think I’d now have time to get out fishing. But, the rains came.

I did manage a nice session with Mike on the lower Taff, however, the river was still a little coloured due to the prior week’s rain. This new section that I’ve not fished before is making me very anxious about getting back on the river. New toys only played with once will always be pined for.

As summer wanders into it’s zenith (the longest day now behind us), there’s still a good amount of trout fishing ahead of us, and plenty of chasing for the Ladies of the Stream after that.

With the river Taff disabled, it looks like I may have to venture to a stillwater…but then my fly boxes do need replenishing, so it looks like a few nights at the vice are in order.

Now, I just wish this rain would stop…