Lets Go Traditional Trouting By Simon Everett

A little grayling splashes on the surface

I’d like to take you back in time to the very roots of fly fishing, using the traditional method on an historic water. There is much debate about the roots of fly fishing with many people quoting Izaac Walton and Charles Cotton as the founding fathers. Whilst they may have gained popular publicity the roots of traditional fly fishing can be traced back a further 500 years or more to the Cistercian monks and the alpine streams of Italy in the 11th century, some evidence supports use of the system by the Romans even. The texts tell of simple, slim-bodied, soft hackled flies and short lines to drift them in the faster water, exactly how the north country spiders are tied and fished.

So how did the continental fishing methods reach the remote Dales of Yorkshire? To answer this one must consider the times, it was a period when Christian pilgrimages were popular and the mighty Abbeys were vastly influential to both trade and travel. It isn’t difficult when you realise the importance they had in developing Yorkshire’s wool trade, exporting bales of prime Swaledale wool to the continent and knowledge of the flies being brought the opposite way and then working through the Dales by word of mouth amongst the drovers and from Abbey to Abbey.

The popular flies that have stood the test of time and perpetuate the tradition have been distilled over the years from a

all the water systematically, the secret is simply to allow the flies to drift with the moving water naturally. The soft, long hackles pulsate tantalisingly as the fly tumbles through on the current, mimicking the legs of a struggling insect. The result is fast, ferocious takes as the fish has little time to make a decision and then act upon it before the morsel is whisked away in the riffle. It is a fun method to use and is enjoyable in its simplicity.

I make no excuse about being thrifty with my tackle, I make do with what I have got rather than have a multitude of different rods for different approaches, so I employed my 8-foot 4 weight as it is the lightest outfit I have. The average stamp of the wild fish in the upper Dove is small, a 12 inch fish is a big one so a 3lb tippet is plenty and is strong enough to survive the odd foray into a tree, thereby saving flies. The river isn’t wide, maybe two rod lengths possibly three at the most and wading on this stretch is prohibited, I wore my wellies for standing in the edge was as bold as I got. With a small pack on my back containing a small box of flies, spare tippet, clipper and forceps plus something to eat and drink I set off down the hallowed banks that had been trod by the likes of Walton, Cotton and Kite.

The river was fairly low and it was a warm, spring afternoon so I expected the fish to be holding in or around the flows into the pools, the riffles between were almost dry in most cases, or only a couple of inches deep in others. I set up with a snipe and purple on the point and a Yorkshire Greenwell on a dropper 18” above, for this small river two flies are all you need. Now, I am no seasoned expert but this method of nymphing is akin to dry fly fishing, but below the surface. The flies swirl around just a little deeper than an emerger rides, but not as deep as a modern nymph, those flowing hackles acting like a parachute in the current, keeping the flies higher in the water and wavering like fingers across a piano as the turbulence pulls at them, calling the trout to take.

There was a busy hatch of flies of various types going on, small olives and the odd sedge, I even saw a big stonefly running across the rocks, life on the river had begun. I started by having just a couple of feet of fly line out of the tip ring and an 8-foot leader, this allowed me to fish all the near water and control the flies as they sped downstream,

Another brownie comes to a carefully wetted hand fishing these spider patterns is all about line control, unlike a dry fly where you have time to pick up a bit of loose leader when you see the take, when the fish hit a spider in the flowing stream the first you know about it is when the fish is hooked, or you miss it but feel the last vestiges of the take. I soon learned to keep my rod tip higher than normal and draw the line through the rings with my left hand to maintain the pace of the water.

I think it was about my third pool when I saw a splashy rise towards the end of the flow, I had got into a sort of rhythm with the water by this time, with the first pools acting as practice. I prepared my cast and gently swung the flies up and across the current and immediately threw in a small, cross stream mend, then followed the flies down with my rod tip at the same time recovering line with my left hand as the current brought the flies closer, there was a sudden tug and my rod slammed round as the trout grabbed the fly and dived back to it’s holding spot, already hooked. The ferocity and strength of that little trout reminded me why I love fishing for these small, but beautiful little trout of the Derbyshire Peaks. They are as fit as Olympic athletes and the colour of freshly opened buttercups. Occasionally a tiny grayling parr would jump on the hook if I let the flies reach the calmer water at the end of the swing, these are the future stocks and show the health of the river.

I continued to catch fish in virtually every run I fished at a nice gentle pace down the stretch. It might be one, possibly two fish depending on the size of the swim, then move kind of approach. By the time I had caught half a dozen I sat down and contemplated my surroundings with a beer. Thinking back, every fish had taken the Greenwells, not a single take on the snipe and purple, so I decided it was time for a change. I had a look in my meagre box and tried a partridge and orange in it’s place, the Greenwells stayed put as it was working well.

I fished for another hour or so, catching the odd fish here and there but they still refused anything but that Greenwells. As the afternoon drew on and the hill cast its shadow over the river the hatch stopped, almost like turning off a light switch, takes dried up and it was time to call it a day. What a day it had been, using an age old traditional method, in an historic water in a glorious part of the country. I count myself very fortunate to be a member of the Derbyshire County Angling Club with the rich variety of rivers and stillwaters to choose between. This particular stretch of the upper Dove has to be one of the nicest spots in the country and the fishing lives up to it too.