THE SHERRY SPINNER
by
PAT REGAN
A lone curlew's sad cry echoed through the limestone valley as the earlier mist began to clear.
With a sense of timeless continuity, the old dry fly fisherman's weather-beaten fingers deftly put their finishing touches to the diminutive blood knot. Long past experience told him that his newly chosen dry fly pattern was 'The One’ that would finally tempt that gently rising leviathan, now residing under the far bank.
To the untrained eye, there was no apparent rush in the angler's dexterous yet easygoing movements. However, his great familiarity with his craft masked a certain urgency originating from the sure knowledge that his chosen quarry would not be available for much longer.
He knew only too well that time was of the essence. Before long the brown trout would have had its fill of the tasty floating morsels presented by the evening rise and returned to the watery depths.
With head held low, the angler's eyes narrowed into piercing slits as he focused intently on the semi-visible trout. The double taper number 3 fly line whipped out through the angler's rod rings like a coiled viper hunting its unsuspecting target.
A golden myriad of tiny flying insects silently danced in the pale evening sunlight over the boulder- strewn riverbank, like miniature ballerinas seeking to please a captivated audience.
As if in a supporting act, a large swarm of sherry spinners joined in the aerial display. Their graceful swooping and falling mating preoccupation rendering them totally oblivious to the almost motionless yet deadly aquatic predator lurking patiently below.
The evening was quite placid yet one unlucky spinner, instantly caught in a light puff of wind coming off the green meadows behind, suddenly realised that she was flying much too close to the beck's watery pull. Subsequently, milliseconds later she ended up pathetically struggling to no avail in the peat-stained surface film.
Devoid of any hope, this pitiful sherry spinner, by now waterlogged and dying, slowly drifted downstream past the overhanging branches of an ancient solitary hawthorn. Her final half-hearted attempts to prolong her all too painfully short existence did not however go entirely unnoticed.
A long dark shadow, just inches below and slightly to the right hand side of her position, kept perfect synchronistic pace with the hapless fly, monitoring every last movement of her twitching red body.
Meanwhile, other waterside residents were also keeping busy. A highly active yellow wagtail narrowly missed the floundering spinner. The bird's sharp beak snapping like an irate clam as she hastily zigzagged through the translucent-winged spinner swarm above. Her skilful efforts successfully finished off two other unfortunate, yet previously still airborne, spinners instead.
This gaily-plumed waterside resident had been on the wing all afternoon. Olive uprights, Blue winged olives, assorted black gnats, stoneflies and a plethora of midge life meant that her crop was by now getting rather full. Greedy little nestlings though required sufficient nourishment and the rocky beck supplied a huge wealth of insect choice for experienced parental wagtails.
The sudden metallic blue and orange flash of a super-fast passing kingfisher caused the wagtail to almost fall off her rocky perch. Mr Kingfisher had also been feeding, albeit further upstream. Not on insects but on the small silver fry and brown minnows that teemed in their millions under the old, lichen-encrusted stone bridge.
By now, all movement had left the sherry spinner's body. She was merely one of hundreds who would, that evening, become part of the eternal dietary food chain of the little Yorkshire beck.
The irresistible push of the current detached the trapped and lifeless insect from a small hawthorn twig touching the water's surface. As the little corpse drifted onwards, her end was finally secured. However, her departure was not completely in vain.
A sudden explosive silver flash parted the mirrored film as the big brown trout turned, rose and clamped his waiting jaws around the unfortunate spinner.
He wasn't really that hungry as he'd been feasting on various duns earlier that afternoon. The stream held rich pickings yet sherry spinners were hard to refuse for they tasted so good and were a doddle to catch. Duns, on the other hand, soon dried themselves off and flew away. Unless of course the day was hot and still, making it harder for them to escape the stickier surface film of the beck!
Seemingly now unaware of his own mortality, in the heat of the moment the fish turned once more to intercept yet another sherry spinner which had just landed eleven inches in front of his razor-toothed neb.
With a quick flick of his powerful tail the trout moved into taking position then, without any fuss, confidently sipped in the floating insect. In an instant the fish realised his fatal mistake. He'd fallen prey to the largest predator of the beck.... Man!
White fly line ripped through the previously tranquil waters. The diminutive six-foot midge rod suddenly bent almost double, as it connected the old hunter to his well-chosen quarry.
Ten yards of loosely coiled line flew out from between the angler's fingers at lightening speed as the large brownie made a determined bid to obtain freedom.
Three times the fish leapt acrobatically into the air, head shaking savagely like a thing possessed, as it tried to shed the tiny artificial fly now firmly attached to its scissors.
The old angler however never wavered. His long experienced hands were now in full control of the situation and soon the trout drifted, fully beaten, into the waiting landing net. All was not however lost for this particular fish.
Soon the trout gained its previous strength, as the angler gently held it horizontally in the beck's healing current. With a deft flick of its huge tail the big fish detached itself from warm fingers and headed across the beck to find quiet sanctuary under the submerged roots of an ancient ash tree. Before long recovery would be complete, the trout's experience forgotten.
At nearly two and a half pounds it was indeed an excellent specimen. The angler already had three other decent trout in his creel that would prove sufficient for several tasty meals. This hard-scrapping beauty could therefore go back and grow into a three-pounder!
The haunting screech of a tawny owl perched high in a nearby alder tree informed the old man that darkness was fast approaching. Enough light would however be available to see the track back to home through the woods. The sky was clear and tonight the waxing yellow moon cast long still shadows across the windless fields surrounding the beck.
Trout had now stopped rising, albeit for the odd greedy tiddler, and millions of microscopic reed smuts plagued the old man, as they danced annoyingly around his bearded face. He couldn't however help admiring the delicate gossamer wings of the beautiful little sherry spinner that had just landed on his sleeve. In an instant, it flew away across the beck to join its many peers that were now swarming several yards above the glistening surface film. Some would survive to lay their eggs and thus carry on the species. Others would end up food for the beck's hungry inhabitants. This was the way of the stream, the way it has always been and the way it always will.
Red orange and purple streaks lashed the halcyon evening sky now as the angler reluctantly made his last cast. He was rather tired after his afternoon excursion but he wasn't complaining.
On the contrary, sport had been brisk thanks to the later falls of sherry spinners. Just as he was about to trim his fly from its leader, a sudden erratic splash, only three yards from his position, caused him to jump.
Unable to resist the temptation, the old man quickly dried off his artificial and with a clever side flick placed the fly into the general direction of the rising trout. Although the failing light was now making it difficult for him to see, he knew that his fly wasn't far off target.
The angler's heart missed a beat as the brownie instantly nailed the dressing. It didn't feel like a giant fish yet it made off like a bullet, fly reel now lurching as it bore deep for the safety of the riverbed.
Collecting his wits, the old man stepped into a better fighting position nearly stumbling on a large slippery rock in the process. Suddenly the trout exploded high into the air, gyrated its lithe red-spotted flanks, and threw the irritating barbless hook.
Once long ago in his fish hungry youth such a loss would have been most disconcerting. Today however the angler simply smiled to himself philosophically. He knew that there would be other days, other evening rises when 'LADY LUCK’ would be on 'HIS' side.
Mist now formed a whisper soft white carpet over the far bankside. A fluttering bat gorged herself, wheeling and turning, into the thick clouds of pale midges.
The same lone curlew had returned to the limestone valley, its eerie cry now appearing to summon in the growing darkness.
A shining full moon was now high above the treetops as the old man, creel firmly on back, climbed the last farm gate for the comforting lights of home.
He felt an icy shiver go through his bones as he peered into the darkening sky at the first bright stars. It was getting quite cold and thoughts of a nice mug of steaming hot tea were paramount in his mind.
Now, only the babbling rush of water cascading over unstable shingle and the rare sound of a solitary otter, hunting for his nightly feed, would disturb the tranquillity of the little beck.
Very soon silence would reign supreme until the coming of tomorrow's sun.