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On the way up to Scotland, Stoats and I stopped off at the cottage in the eastern Pennines. We decided to pop over to fish the River Eden the next day and the weather forecast was looking better after all the rain we'd driven through. The local Ironmongers dealt with the day tickets; it was like stepping back in time. Not unlike Arkwrights shop off of Open All Hours (UK TV reference) but with chicks!

As the pretty, young shop assistant was writing out the tickets her grandmother was propped on a stool eyeing us up with a real old fashioned look. She noticed the camera slung over my shoulder and in a strong northern accent asked "Ar ya goin ta be taking pictures on him?". Stoats looked over at me and chuckled as I was tried to work out if "taking picture ON him" was a northern twist on the Queen's English or the slip of the tongue. We went in to the bakery on the way back to the car to top up on pies and pastries for lunch, propa fishin' food!

Arriving at the river mid morning we wandered over to the bridge to have the classic look for the "bridge fish"... I remember Ronan suggesting that there is always a fish by a bridge. I rarely see anything from bridges... mostly supermarket trolleys and orange road cones... and once a Ford Escort...

There was a nice steady hatch of small olives and in the bridge pool several fish were rising to them. Like two old men we made a proper geriatric fuss of getting into our waders, its must had been painful to watch. Back to the river, this time rod rigged and ready with a sz16 adams, not very olive but the closest of my NZ leftovers. I waded into position but the fish I had spotted from the bridge was gone. It only took a few exploratory casts before a head popped up in the run in front of me. I popped the fly a foot above him and up he came, a very pretty brown about half a pound tussled to hand.

Stoats had gone in below me and moved up the far side of the pool. He had a fish rising close to the far bank, tight in between the bushes. It ignored the first few drifts but eventually got sick of the fly and ate it, I suspect, through boredom. The strike stuck, a nice bend on the 4wt SLT then pop... a perfect demonstration of long line catch and release. We crawled up the bank and made our way down the stretch a mile or so downstream. From the high bank it was great to see plenty of rises, it looked like it was going to be a great day. At the walk's end we slid down bank then plopped into the river and went one for one all the way back to the bridge. The rules were simple enough, if you catch, lose or spook a fish the other person was on strike. This worked really well - for me - as my fated friend continually bumped and lost fish all day. I proposed that he had obviously forgotten to tie a hook on his fly. Maybe his radish like varnish eye had put him off his tying game.

Fish after fish dropped off his line, it was just one of those days. We all have them, but few take them as light heartedly as Stoats - the president of the LLC+R club.

Still, I caught plenty! Including my first UK Grayling! Out of season technically but I'm counting it! A beautiful male fish with a stunning sail like dorsal fin painted in purples and reds.

Trev

Pic Of Day

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