Diary of a Bad Fisherman – rain and bob flies

On a soggy summer outing our resident Bad Fisherman John Archibald contemplates broken rods and the unpredictable fortunes of fly fishing.

Posted by Elderjuice on September 24, 2012. Filed under Lifestyle,Outdoors. Posted with the tags:Fishing, John Archibald
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Diary of a Bad Fisherman – rain and bob flies

Fishing boats on the Threipmuir Reservoir. Courtesy of Richard Webb geograpgh.org.uk

On a soggy summer outing our resident Bad Fisherman John Archibald contemplates broken rods and the unpredictable fortunes of fly fishing.

My mate Colin and I thought we might brave the chill July rain for a few hours and have a bash at Threipmuir reservoir where his fishing club keeps a few boats.

So we headed out through the grey afternoon suburbs to the village of Balerno and into the Pentland Hills where, not surprisingly, it was still raining. But hope springs eternal and as all Bad Fishermen will tell you, you never know!

We were putting our rods up when Colin told me he had broken his favourite rod the week before – a Gray’s of Alnwick, six-piece Smugglers’ rod.

Forward cast
He was fishing a weighted nymph on the upper Tweed at Dawyck one evening and was halfway through a forward cast when his rod broke cleanly just above one of the middle joints.

As he hadn’t taken a spare rod with him, his fishing day came to a peremptory end. I was surprised as I had never heard of fly rods breaking like that. Not in this day of high-tech materials.

Apparently some weeks before two sections of the rod had jammed together and taken some effort to pull apart, so obviously the rod had been weakened in the process.

Being a Bad Fisherman of course I had, when a lad, also broken a rod, the tip of my split cane Sharpe’s Scottie, by trying to shove it through dense undergrowth on the River Bogie. Being split cane it was fixable, in a manner, but the resultant kink in the top section meant the rod was never quite the same again.

Drizzle
So we took to the water in a slight drizzle, which then thickened into a persistent shower, before becoming a heavy downpour turning the water into a fuzzy, pock-marked sheet. Mmmmm.

My three-fly team of Soldier Palmer, Kate McLaren and Black Pennel (virtual wet-fly Royalty) were having a quiet time of it when Colin stated that he had previously had success in such conditions by playing a big bushy bob fly in the surface film.

Ha! I scoffed as I ghillied him over a likely hot spot on the south shore, my own flies trailing behind the boat.

“Colin – I sense fish, any minute now.”

No sooner had the words passed my lips when, bang! The large brown trout took my bob fly as if it hadn’t had a good meal in a week.

Five good fish later I congratulated Colin on his superior knowledge of matters piscatorial. Unfortunately the action was virtually all coming my way. Boat fishing is often like that; one person seemingly touched by genius while the boat partner struggles.

Turning the boat round, swapping positions, changing to the same fly, or even swapping rods, seems to make no difference.

When the fishing Gods have decreed that one angler shall prevail over all others, thus it shall be, no matter what.

Which is all very well, but not if you want to be asked back!

Catch up with John Archibald on fishing