When Barry Murrer offered to take me fly fishing for the first time, I could hardly say no. I wrote about my experience from my position as editor of the Newbury AA Quarterly Newsletter and copy the two resultant articles below. Cheers, Barry.

Evening #1

When I have occasion to flick through the Newbury Angling Association’s  Rules and Regs Book I see ‘3.1 Trout fishing, with artificial dry fly only, shall commence on 1st  April and close on 30 September.’ 

I’ve always wondered if this is just a legacy from some far off days of J. R. Hartley (Google him, kids) and Plus Fours (better Google them too). Surely no one wets a fly in these days of boilies and bait boats, but it turns out I’m wrong, as Barry Murrer contacted me out of the blue as Editor of the NAAN, and one mid-May evening I was kindly invited to my first ever fly fishing session. 

I’d only met Barry once before – he was catching big pike at Bulls Lock in the dead of winter - so I was thrilled and surprised to get the invite. Barry said he’d provide the gear, all I needed to bring was my wellies. We trekked down to Parliament Draft on Speen Moors, with only a whippy rod with light centrepin each to carry.  Everything else we needed was stored in Barry’s impressive utility gilet, with folding landing net clipped on the back, pockets zipped to hold small boxes of flies, leaders and other paraphernalia, and two small bottles held in easy access bands. I queried what they were. ‘One’s floaty-stuff to rub on the flies, the other’s sinky-stuff,’ Barry told me, my blank look betraying my complete ignorance. 

Now on the bank, Barry took his left handed rod, explained his elbow action, the speed of his backward rod movement and gentler flick forward as his line made a swirl in the air and sent his weightless fly plopping gently on the opposite side of the stream. Then it was my turn with a right-handed reel and all I had to do was copy this graceful swish and watch my thick yellow line extend across the water to where the fat trout would surely be lying. They were safe for now, as I had not been provided with a fly on the end of my line for my first attempts. It was a wise move. 

Barry was exceptionally patient as he explained for the fifth, sixth and seventh time that I was forward swishing both too fast and too far away from my body. The extra effort I was applying was counter-intuitively shortening the distance of my cast, albeit I was glad to at least be reaching water. What wasn’t so good was that the speed of my swing was causing the leader to audibly crack. I felt like a circus ringmaster as time after time each cast was met with the same whip lash. Barry calmly told me to slow it down but that if I’d been allowed a fly on the end, each cast would probably have cracked off and lost to the undergrowth behind me. He had a point, as when I checked later on, Wikipedia told me that, ‘The crack is produced when a section of the whip moves faster than the speed of sound creating a small sonic boom’. Blimey, I had been overcooking it. I slowed my technique sufficiently to avoid further sonic booms until I got to the point where I was trusted with a fly. ‘It’s a Hawthorn Fly,’ Barry told me, ‘a couple of weeks ago the air was full of them and the trout were going crazy. We’re probably a bit late now.’ He tied the small hook, sporting some dangly black bristles and a tiny piece of foam onto my line. It looked like a spider and quite unappetising. ‘I tie them myself,’ said Barry. ‘Please don’t crack off,’ I urged myself, ‘and don’t cast into a tree…nor hook mine or especially Barry’s ear.’  

 I was pleased that with the added incentive of having a fly and a spot to aim for that was quite close to shore I managed to avoid both crack and both ears. I’d slowed down my action, kept my arm nearer my body, stiffened the wrist and could now flick the diminutive artificial bug a half-respectable distance across the water on a good cast. The trees were more of a problem. The first time I managed to get it back without the line snapping, but  ten or so decent casts later I lost a precious fly to the high branches. I felt dreadful, picturing Barry taking ages to painstakingly tie these tiny decoys with the help of a large magnifying glass and a study.  Thankfully, he remained very calm – as least I hadn’t cracked it off like a lasso spinner at a rodeo. 

We walked the length of the Draft, fighting our way through long undergrowth, the evil-smelling mud trying to suck our boots off. Only two swims were fishable, far too overhung with branches for me, so I watched Barry effortlessly place his fly where he needed it, albeit no trout rose. 

‘The water being so cloudy,’ Barry told me as we headed back to the main drag,  ‘means you can’t see the fish to aim at, so it becomes a bit of a lottery.’ We stood at the bridge at the NW corner and watched the water for rising fish. Barry had his eye attuned to spotting the occasional mayfly that had just hatched on the surface of the water to be carried downstream. I missed most of them. ‘They will have hatched today,’ he told me, ‘and are called duns at this point, tomorrow they shed their skins to become adult spinners and then mate and die the same day.’ I stared at the water and eventually started to see the occasional yellow fly. ‘The trout aren’t interested now,’ Barry surmised as a robin fluttered out and caught one in mid-air, ‘but come the 29th May the air will be thick with them,’ and we pledged to return for another go then. 

Turns out Barry knows his flies as he regularly volunteers for Action for the River Kennet (ARK) so is a dab hand at these duns. He told me about his work monitoring fly larvae each month to provide information of biodiversity and as an early warning of pollution. At the moment the river fly life is in excellent health. He also monitors spawning trout in the River Lambourn where it runs through Newbury. Last winter was a very good year with plenty of enormous female trout making their way up river to dig redds and spawn. These trout probably live in the Kennet and the canal for most of the year so look out when you’re chub fishing! 

Neither of us made any more casts. Apparently there’s little point – if the trout aren’t rising to take the real thing, they ain’t likely to be fooled by a piece of metal bound with a few twists of cotton. We walked back to the car in the beautiful Spring sunshine as he told me about recent catches, such as the one pictured here. It had been lovely to be out, in good company too, even if the trout had been elusive. I thoroughly enjoyed our short stint, even if it was between hatches. I was already excited about the planned return in a fortnight’s time.

Evening 2

The two weeks passed since my first attempt at fly fishing, and Barry was kind enough to again meet me and lend me a rod at Speen Moors. This time as he predicted, the female mayfly were laying eggs in the water, whiles others were hatching and taking off. Delicious!

I found that the two-week gap had made me a better caster, and I didn’t crack a single fly off all evening. We both tried our luck in Parliament Draft, but with clouds building and a gusty breeze, nothing fishy was showing. Barry speculated that the fish had probably been gorging on the gangly delights all day and were probably having a break before resuming the feast, usually at around 6:30.

So, we walked the river looking for action and sure enough, at the allotted hour, we started to see fish rise. Typically, most were in zones that could not be reached by us, but as the topping got more frequent, what appeared to be a shoal started gulping flies with abandon right in the middle of the flow. Gentleman Barry allowed me first go. I found my casting as smooth as it had been at any point, and my tiny mayfly-themed lure landed time and time again amid the increasing number of actual mayflies floating down the river and past the furor of fish gorging on them. Apart from the casts that the breeze blew into the annoying overhanging branch, I felt that I just HAD to catch.  Then one cast Barry shouted ‘YOU’VE GOT A TAKE!’ I must admit, I had mistaken one of the actual flies for my artificial one and didn’t see it. ‘WHAT DO I DO?’ I yelled back. ‘STRIKE!’ he exclaimed. I did, but of course I’d long missed it, but now had an idea what to expect.

I allowed Barry his turn at the spot and after many casts reassuringly  similar  to mine, a fish took his fly. Excitement! It wasn’t big, but when it came near, its red fins were unmistakable and to his embarrassment and horror, particularly in front of a committee member, he brought in an out of season roach of maybe 5oz.

We carried on, and on my turn I saw a take – and struck – but it didn’t connect. Feeling my first catch was not far away, the fish gods decided I’d fluffed my chance, and as if an unseen switch had been turned off, the rising stopped and the river returned to rolling on by with its payload of mayfly totally untroubled by trout or roach.

We only fished for an hour, Barry having moths to catch and then give a lecture on, but it was enough to make me fall in love with the artistry and guile of a whole new aspect of our wonderful sport. If you can, I urge you to give it a go. We could all do with a Barry Murrer in our fishing.