The name of a fly.

Fly fishing is a confidence trick, your fooling the assurance of the fish, that’s the game.  That favourite fly, in pride of place in my box, that last choice that always works; is the one that also switches back-on my personal confidence, makes me focused, attentive and back to fishing well. The best fly for the conditions is the one a person’s most confident fishing, not necessarily the matched hatch, or they can end up fishing with doubt. Doubt is a cancer that disables your ability and corroded success.

That fish that rises up to take the end of a drift, that you miss because you’re not switched on and ready, distracted in thought, wondering about other tactics… is the result of doubt. For me, that happens way too often.

The cast low under the trees to the Trout sat hard against the bankside is guaranteed to catch only those thorny Blackberry bushes when I allow even the slightest hint of doubt to appear before I cast. . If I have pulled off that same cast a few nights earlier, or even last season, I can just nail it without thinking. Once I allow doubt to creep in, I am ‘screwed’.

If I do, which is often, screw up that shot, or fluff the bit of extra distance needed to cover a particular fish. I will then sacrifice that bit of water, splashing and thrashing until I have the shot perfected and its almost second nature.. there maybe no chance of any fish left in the area. But now, the next time I’m faced with it , there’s no rational reason left for doubt, and I can then move on upstream to the remaining evening’s fishing with a renewed confidence and satisfaction of job done, Even if that isn’t the object of the exercise down in the river; catching Trout, it’s a means to an end.

I have to admit to you dear reader, I have a mental blockage, an incapacity that I am powerless to conquer. I will not call it my nemesis, that suggests some form of malady or intent on its part, and in truth I must admit that this poor disfigured little tree is in its sad condition, its unbalanced appearance, suffering from the abuse of the many cruel hacks, cracks and snaps that I have rendered unto it, in states of wild demented retribution. I cannot fish near it without my mocking brain informing me that I’m about to catch my fly in it, nay lose my fly in it while spooking the nearby fish. Yet those Trout yearly, always rise nearby and opposite it. I try to rationalise that I have the ability to avoid it, yet mid cast the nagging doubt pops up, and like a moth to a flame, my fate is linked; my downfall, guaranteed and certain.

When on the odd occasion I’m good at this game, I’ll be wading up stream, with my vision wide and focused on nothing in particular. Something catches attention in my vision, something out of kilter with the flow, a tunnel seem to close in on that spot. From my last cast without thinking, an adjustment is made in the line and trajectory and a fly is cast a few feet upstream of that spot.. There is no conscious thought in the process, it’s normally technique beyond my abilities, but with no distraction of questions or doubt, it’s a pure reaction. I think it’s the mysterious place sports people call ‘the zone’ where confidence is a given and not questioned. I never reach that place when in company and it’s not a meditative state I can call on at will. But a few times a season it visits me and is most welcome.

I’d been up on a hill tarn in the Lake District in conditions that if on my doorstep, I’d have been doing housework, sorting invoices, watching raindrops race down the window; anything and everything other than face that weather outside. Having no choice and no cover, faced into a wind and driving rain on a fishing trip. I’d figured out a way of driving or punching a line out through the howling wind and into the waves a little distance off shore. Here the fish were mopping up, and I was feeling those strong takes on my drowned daddy long legs, mostly obscured behind the choppy waters. Here I was, despite the miserable English hill weather, enjoying one of the most unusual and productive sessions I’d had in my short fishing pastime.

Then a chap turned up, we’ve all seen them. Dressed in what looks like being tailor made for his tall athletic frame, expensively labeled, designer fishing gear; from his cap right down to his luxurious wading boots. A reel that looked like it’s worth as much as my 2nd hand car, on a rod that you just know has Sage or  Hardy written on it, and it would be this season’s model.

He’s probably called Tarquin and daddies ghillie taught him to cast when he was 7 on the summer ‘hols’ in the family estate in Loch Snooty. Caught his first salmon when he was 12, had casting lessons at Boarding school, and spends his summers, sweltering in the tropics catching Bonefish and Permit. ( I hope I’m not coming across as bitter and twisted).

For some reason in the whole landscape he stands a few yards from the soggy drenched, old sack of spuds that I now resemble, turns his back to the water and the howling wind,and casts the most exquisite tight loops below his shoulder via a precise snappy haul. He launches a cast off his back stroke plunging straight into the wind and off beyond, way past my limit. As he turns himself around, the chisel nosed loop drives it low, skimming across the water and it completely turns over just above the surface and lands down straight. It’s a neat trick, and a way to deal with these conditions that I hadn’t even considered, nor had the technical ability to pull off.

Instantly, I am stood there in just my under pants and I can no longer cast. My ‘neat’ improvised low drive into the face of the wind deserted me. Now instead, sweeping out in wide loops that land randomly sidewise in a heap; or over-correcting, I keep catching my rod with the fly, it spins wildly round with the impact, tangling the tippet round in a knot. I spend more time working at the humiliating tip of my rod than the handle, trying to see through the rain dripping into my eyes. My tippet looks like a pig’s tail from all the tangles, but can’t find the arse to change it. In these conditions, everything has now become an uphill struggle. 

I can no longer turn over a leader, and I inexplicably cannot reach where I know the fish are any more. My fishing is over for the day, it’s just a case of how long that I choose to stick out this humiliation and keep face. As I got back to my old beaten up VW in the parking lot, it’s been joined by a brand-new Range Rover, no doubt he left the Porche at home.. I should have guessed that beast drove the car to match his fishing gear. I hate classy casters, it’s not their fault that they really bring out the fishing buffoon in me, and leave me feeling unmasked, uncomfortable and found out. It’s the reason for years that I avoided fishing with other people and taking up invites, it’s daft, it’s irrational, and it is yet another confidence trick that I battle to deal with.

We were due to fly to New Zealand for a month or more, my first ever visit, it would end at a family wedding at the top of the North Island, but we had a few weeks to explore the South Island and look at properties. My partner didn’t fish, but we both knew there was no way that I wasn’t going to get some fishing in.

It was early days of the internet and I had little research I could do apart from looking at maps. I had heard of the New Zealand dropper technique, probably read in a magazine. Had little idea about the flies so decided to make  a general pattern for the trip that would float well and combine many of my favorite patterns that worked on the Brook. A fool’s errand really, but it kept me engaged with the growing excitement and actively indulged in planning ahead.

I had got to the point of not reading recipes for flies anymore, which always involved materials that you hadn’t got in your zillions of packets, or actually forgot that you had, and ended up buying a second and often a third time. I would look at techniques and styles of tying but, make up the flies with the materials I had available, or could find.

 On that spectrum of being more satisfying to trick the confidence of the Trout with a fly you had tied yourself, it’s surely even more so on one you have made up. I had a box of made up flies but not ego enough to have christened them names. Knowing me they would have ended up being called Steve; Kevin; Derrick; Stanley; Eric; Our Arkwright; and Ermentrude!

We had no Stoneflies on the Brook so I never even thought of them, nor strangely did I consider Caddis which we have in abundance. I was hung up on up-wings; Olives; Mayflies. Probably suffering the hangover symptoms from a dose of the Halfords, dangling onto the convention of the traditionalEnglish Dry Fly, rather than using my faculties to inform me.

And so, a poetic romantic exploration, rather than looking forscientific fact to inform me, and creating by a system of pot luck!

I wanted a fly that floated well to take that  New Zealand dropper nymph if that was an option. An up-wing just hatched out pattern, but also a spinner. I required a general shape, a footprint that worked on the surface. I was looking at a jack of all trades, but hopefully not a master of none.

I know it’s a journey many fly fishermen have tried before, to create an ultimate all-rounder. And for every Grey Duster or Greenwell’s Glory there will be thousands of False Hope’s that were dashed in a few blank sessions, thence sat idle in the back of decrepit old fly boxes waiting for the arrival of the moths and mites to return them to dust..

At the time I was reading lots about target colours on the flies, around the tail and body and had been trying out stuff on the Brook. Red the most touted and obvious, seemed to work. But I tried various options and in a very unscientific random study, Orange came up as the one that seemed to get the best results.

Stiff expensive hackles didn’t work for the wing, too rigid; I couldn’t get the diversity of look and effect that I needed. I found some cheap rubbish packs of loose cock hackles from my early tying days, they were called Blue Dunn; in other words cool grey. Of the many dozen feathers in the pack, probably less than a dozen were actually usable and this, despite the fact that I wanted longer than normal hackles, I graded the lengths carefully for 14’s and 16’s.

The hook had to be long, here was so much to cram on, especially tying off that foam at the head.

The tail surprisingly, was the real headache that I kept overthinking. I trialed no tail, thinking I could also combine an emerger option into this Frankenstein fly. The fly spun in the air, twisting the tippet, and the drift on the water was terrible with the leader material seeming to dictate its path downstream rather than the specific current it was sat in, a kind of micro drag created, which impressed none of the obviously feeding fish that it passed over.

Paint brush fibres, looked visually great, but again seemed not to balance, land, or drift well. I was also suspicious of the stiffness and maybe their ability to bounce the fly away from the trout, Commercial dry fly filberts had the same problems, and again with very expensive Coq de Leon fibres, that were softer, looked lovely, but added no function.  Pheasants tail fibres, was the next brainwave, they looked too heavy and Mayfly like,, they also didn’t float well, a stupid idea really. Barred Duck fibres; Deer’s hair; Goat hair; Buck tail fibres; Antron; all were tried, and nothing seemed to work. 

I looked back at those cheap and cheerful cock hackles and found a decent pinch from the longer reject feathers gave me the length  and stability, I was worried about the amount of bulk on the water, but reducing the pinch didn’t help. I liked the way they landed with that generous pinch and for now it was the best of a bad bunch.

For the body dubbing, I was clueless, so I mixed my favourites together, Hares mask, squirrel, and adding mole to get it in the grey zone I was after. For extra floating I tied in some orange foam under neath the body and pulled it through the hackle splitting it into a flat spinner style, but keeping the tall upright winged, ‘dunn’ appearance too, and I based the whole fly on bright orange tying thread.

My last touch was to build up a tag of orange thread behind the tail, initially this was just adding a patch of target colour. But found that if I tied the tail fibres hard down on that the fibres not only fanned out but the central ones lifted and only the outer fibres sat on the water, so I still got the nice landing and drag resistance when sat on the flow of the water.

Once finally satisfied and field tested on the Brook, with the help of those willing Trout down there. I was encouraged enough to get started on tying up plenty of these flies for the trip which I felt sure, would no doubt conquer the New Zealand Trout. (my idiot thoughts and optimism never fails to astound or embarrass me, but it’s those positive hopes that drive me on these tasks). I know others would save this time by going to Farlows on the Mall and saying, “sell me 50 flies that will be good for New Zealand South Island fine fellow”.. or even more prudently, just waiting to find a fishing shop when they got there.

I had never put so much effort into a fly, and if I’d blanked with it a few times then no doubt about it, my confidence would have plummeted and would have given up on it and written it off as yet another aberration. But that investment in time and research bought me extra confidence and the fly some extra time, now it just needed to prove itself. 

Somewhere in the center of the South Island I finally had a few hours where I could take the car away and find a bit of fishing at last. In the map book it showed a nearby river, on one bank the road was close by, that meant people and not much privacy. The other bank the road was close but the river reached by paths across land, one of these had a tiny trace of blue, a little feeder stream running in. I could park up by this little trickle and find my way to the main river. And hopefully my introduction to New Zealand rivers was going to be a private affair.

I followed the map meticulously praying not to miss the little stream, and arrived by a river bigger than my own Willow brook, full of big boulders and pools, this was the thin spidery blue line, hardly what I expected and no way I was wading up stream in this! I followed a track  for I guess 10 minutes or more in the bush up stream and in the clearing the main river opened up in front of me. It was big. Bigger than any UK river I had seen, wider than some of the lakes in the lake district at home, and it was virtually featureless, just one big relentless flow on a large sweeping bend, I was stood on a huge wide shingle and boulder bed on the bank of it, and it was flowing the opposite direction to what I expected. I was up stream of the feeder stream, and I had aimed to be below it. The stream itself, where it entered the river was not wide, but fast, deep, and turbulent; too deep to cross.  I didn’t want to waste precious time backing up to cross it, I thought I’d give it a go and wet a line, make the best of a bad option.

And so the fly found its way  to a New Zealand water at last, nothing like the many options I’d imagined back on dark autumn nights in old Blighty.

I searched for signs, I fished water blind around the banks and gradually worked out into the main current straight ahead.Somewhere ahead just on the edge of my comfortable casting range, you could see the last influence of the feeder stream where it mingled into the main flow. I really wished I was down stream of that , but here I could see a glide of smooth water , not wide maybe a yard or so, but it stretched parallel to my bank for a good few yards. It was a target of sorts.

My first cast into the zone and my fly was greeted with a little splash and in came a small brown Trout, no legendary NZ specimen, just a Willowbrook like maybe 6 ouncer, if I’m feeling generous. Next cast travelled the glide, before going under, I wondered if the dropper nymph in the flow had dragged it down, but in came an even smaller Rainbow trout this time. Next cast into the Zone and brief moments after landing, the grey fly was again hit on the surface and in came another small Brown. Not the fishing that I had travelled around the globe for, but it was a welcome introduction.

Then ‘he’ arrived!

Out of the trees on the down stream side of the feeder, appeared a tall athletic specimen, dressed in what looked like made to measure, Simms or Patagonia waders, expensive jacket, and immaculate accessories. I remember having a bet with myself that I’d find a brand  new Range Rover or Land Cruiser parked by my car. I tried to ignore this intrusion and focus on my fishing , the fly landed in the zone and nothing took. At the end of the drift the grey fly slid under as the current  dragged down the nymph and I reeled in a small rainbow again. I could sense the interest of ‘fish on’ from the newcomer and then imagined the derision at the size of it. I tried to ignore his casting as he was exploring a round the banks close in.

Then something made me look, I think the double hauling in the corner of my eye, and he launched the most immaculate, effortless long tight loop unravelling out and landing perfectly  down stream of me, ”Bastard!”  Precisely where I had figured would be the ideal spot had I read that map book right.  I expected him to connect with a four pounder at least. But all that happened was that I was into another small Brown Trout, followed by yet another.

He continued to be a casting god, just downstream of me, searching out waters new  and making the far bank look less distant, as I continued to catch what was now a dozen or more small browns and the odd rainbow. At least if our survival was at stake, upstream of the inlet, we’d be feasting on fish.

Eventually his blank got the better of him and he called over to me.

“Hey mate what are they taking?” His accent was a turn up, I had assumed he was a Kiwi, but I knew that accent, from those surfers back in Fingal heads and my 8 years in his country, an Aussie!

“ It’s a grey dry fly with a bit of orange on it, on a size 14. Do you have anything like that?” I shouted back.. knowing he wouldn’t.

“No mate, I was trying a nymph, none of my dries are like that”.

I invited him to cast his fly over to me as there was no way either of us were crossing the feeder stream. Feeling over generous and with a full fly box at the beginning of a trip. I took half a dozen flies out of my box and treaded them loose onto his tippet,  and then secured them with a knot and held it up for him to retrieve. “There you go big fella”.  

I know that he thanked me, but I remember mostly the look on his face when he saw the state of the offering’s. The man was not impressed. The scruffy disheveled little guy had just presented him with equally  scruffy disheveled looking flies, and I think he was wandering how to deal with the offering without offending.  The awkward silence was broken with a dry dismissive sounding question. “ These English flies are they?!”

“Yeah Mate”…and a mischievous streak came over me, remembering my  verbal run ins with various Australians over the years of living there.  “We call them, the Whingeing Pom”.

I caught another Brown trout , willing it to be bigger than the rest, it wasn’t; 4 oz at best. And I turned and walked back to the bush and the track with over a dozen fish caught, “ See you mate, tight lines” I called over. “Hope that Whingeing Pom does you good”.

That’s my confidence fly.

Last night on the Brook the May fly spinners were all over the water, but the fish weren’t touching them. Dance flies like wee Eric and his dangly bits, were spinning around just over the water doing the funky fandango, Black Silverhorn Caddis were dancing inches from the surface too. And through that surface our tiniest up-wing Olive; the Small Spurwing, was hatching out and gracefully lifting up into the Air. Slowly ascending above the waters and catching the feint rays of sunlight. Illuminated now, becoming glowing little angels in the growing gloom of that creeping darkness, now shading the bank-sides and the waters. Such delightful moments of tiny splendor, make these evenings become blessed and memorable.

Fish were going mad and snapping through the surface, but the usual, logical, suspects from the fly box were refused, as they drifted over where I knew were feeding fish. My confidence ebbed away from each choice, as each rising fish encountered was silenced and seemed to fade away.

Then with a shrug or was it with relief? The Whingeing Pom came out of the box, like nothing on the menu that I could see, but it lands light, and drifts naturally with the current. I always seem to catch on it, (and nowadays , quickly forget those times when I don’t), and last night in the last half hour or so, it put another 8 fish on the catch return. Another 8 scale samples for the research, and further boosted my confidence in its ability, if that was at all possible.

Back when I was a kid reading Trout and Salmon bought with my paper-round money, some bellicose old fishing giant, Richard Walker; wrote scurrilous condemnation upon people who keep naming new flies that are not proven. His bench mark of success or worthiness of naming, was when 500 fish had been caught, he himself had at least half a dozen flies that he had introduced to the fraternity.

In what must be now nearly 20 years of fishing with it, the Pom has had probably 20% of the fish caught each season. As the first choice when I am exploring water looking for clues , or, ‘in need of a confidence fly’ … a last hope. I’ve tweaked it over the years, and struggled at times to find cock hen hackle of that colour, that is poor quality enough to get the effect. It’s a very low bar that I am searching for.

Logically at the Brook based on stomach contents of fish it should be a beetle or a small black fly pattern to match the main diet. Yet it’s caught hundreds if not over a thousand trout, in all sorts of rivers, not because it’s a particularly genius pattern, it’s no better than many others in my box, it’s just that confidence it gives me and how it affects my fishing and focuses my attention while it’s on the water that makes it my correct choice.

That’s the tale of the Whingeing Pom, and I believe the detail of it, is in the Tail itself.

Tight lines and tight loops, whereever you are on the globe, have a great week and if you cast like a god or goddess. Then I’ll try not to hate you too much. But I can’t promise.

Chris Avery