I fell across this place today. A magical stretch of the Nar miles from anywhere, where water surges through an old mill-race under a ramshackle bridge, speeds headlong across a riffle, through a long-demolished sluice, into a deeper pool.
I'm no chub angler, but it screamed chub. Dace flashed on the shallows - I can't remember the last time I saw a shoal of dace - while a thick black tail or two waved beneath the streamer weed.
What a glorious, glorious place. Flies were hatching on a steadier run above a bend, with the odd dimple as fish tucked into the free feed.
I wonder how many more places like this lie forgotten, where the fish never see an angler as the river winds through the meadows, keeping its secrets to itself.
It looks beautiful - I still can't understand the addiction some people have to commercials when, well, you can fish somewhere as alluring as this.
ReplyDeleteI should probably qualify that: I do understand how aspects of angling have become commodified - and on a frightening scale since I last did any angling* - but I don't see the attraction in commercial venues where this is an alternative.
* The late 1980s...gulp