WILD SILVER LADIES
&
THE BLUE & OLIVE DUN
by Pat Regan
Generally speaking, grayling spawn from March to May although of course the weather conditions play a decisive part in this seasonal affair.
The victories or failures of the avid dry fly angler, who sternly refuses to hang up his rod just because there's ice on the ground, are also dependant on the prevailing restrictions imposed on him by the state of the day at hand. Nevertheless, there's rarely a month, week or day that cannot give an hour or two's dry fly sport with grayling, or trout for that matter, providing that the angler possesses the prime requirements for success which are healthy enthusiasm, stealth and a determined will to win through at all costs.
If you have access to a river which supports the Silver Lady of the Stream then there's no reason to omit his excellent species from your angling attentions. If you do, in favour of being TROUT ONLY, you will sadly miss out on some fine sport and also the chance of a very tasty culinary treat as well.
A one pound Grayling, cleaned then grilled with a little black pepper and butter is every bit as good to eat as trout, in fact I now prefer it to trout. Better still, a handful of oats as a coating adds very nicely to the flavour. I used to scale them but have recently discovered that this is not necessary. Moreover, as they are 'free-rising' shoal fish one can usually bring home enough for a hungry family meal when they are truly on the take.
Some of my best catches have been had on the River Hodder, near Clitheroe in Lancashire. Furthermore, I found through personal hard won experience that the dark days of January and February frequently produced the heaviest fish.
I recall one bleak, yet exciting, February day some years ago on the Hodder. The stream was falling steadily but still running quite high and slightly coloured after the heavy winter floods.
Although I wasn't expecting any great angling achievements at this period in the calendar, at least the river wasn't frozen over as it had been on my visit last time.
On that previous trip, the only way I would have caught a fish would have been to cut holes in the thick ice and dangle a baited hook like the Eskimos do.
When it freezes on these harsh, yet beautiful, Northern spate streams it does so in dramatic fashion. The ice can be thick enough to walk on making an angler feel quite redundant as the fish stare nonchalantly back at him through nature's cold, glassy window. Nevertheless, now was February and the big frosts were thankfully subsiding early.
The yellow flash of an inquisitive wagtail, zipping out across the water from a lichen-covered rock, caught my immediate attention as my thigh waders crunched into the bank side shingle. This ubiquitous little feathery inhabitant was apparently nailing the odd dun from the surface film then hungrily devouring them on his well placed, riverside vantage spot.
Seeing this, my whole perception of an otherwise miserable looking day changed. Hatching flies meant the possibility of feeding surface fish and I personally knew from past experience that this particular stretch often held a good head of powerful grayling.
Although there wasn't much foliage on the trees, I still had to be cautious with the back cast for behind my position a high, near vertical, rock face with overhanging branches threatened to snatch every careless flick of my number 3 DT line.
The pool I was on had a nice steady run at the tail and, sure enough, a few little grey sailboats were beginning to litter the surface film. It was midday and, much to my delight, the Large Dark Olive (Baetis rhodani) was apparently putting in a very welcome early appearance.
I personally love this little insect. It has the great ability to get the adrenaline going on the coldest of days, often popping up in the stream when no other fly dares to venture forth. For me, the LDO is constantly symbolic of the promise of summer. It's the fly that gets the fish off the bottom and looking up toward the surface, hence it's the saviour of many a Dry Fly Addict's day. Surprisingly though, many anglers arrive at the river and seem quite oblivious to the hatching LDO, or any other surface fly for that matter.
Sadly, numerous fishermen prefer instead to wallop a heavy nymph/wet fly across, or even worse, downstream to find their sport. If I had a quid for every time I've seen unthinking anglers wade right in and totally spoil a lovely hatch of olives I'd be rich. My heart sinks if I arrive at the water to see a figure in the middle of the river waving one of those great poker-like rods downstream. When this happens, I usually walk in the opposite direction and give the stretch time to recover. Such statements as the above are seemingly biased to many wet fly enthusiasts, yet they are gleaned from many seasons of careful observation of the behavioural patterns of trout. In low water conditions, as soon as a fish sees that shadow of a downstream line coming across its position it usually dives for the deepest cover possible like a rabbit down a bolt hole. This isn't simply a personally held opinion, it's an easily provable 'fact' that can be witnessed by anyone who cares to study the issue.
Time and time again on the Northern rivers I have had lovely catches of quality game fish right in the (six inch deep) shallows at bankside whilst frustrated mid-stream wading fanatics have gone home with empty creels. I, and a pal who shares my seemingly 'cultist' philosophy of river 'hunting-stealth', frequently used to joke that the Downstream Only Thrashers were struck with some sort of incurable angling disease. Years later, I now think that we were wrong to jest because it is indeed a problem that many anglers seem unable (or unwilling) to jettison from their mental process.
After ten minutes of searching the water for a decent rising target, a sudden large swirl behind a grey semi-submerged rock grabbed my attention. I didn't see the fish but judging from the swell it was a good 'en. Without hesitation, my dry LDO imitation dropped delicately just to the side of the riser which was only some four yards out from my casting position.
Again a heavy swirl, flick of the wrist and 'Wham!," he took it violently first cast. Although I felt his weight for a microsecond, I was too slow and missed him. Undaunted, I hurriedly false-cast to dry the pattern. My heart missed a beat as the big fish rose confidently on the third attempt.
I struck again, instantly reprimanding myself as I suddenly realised that the grayling had not hit my artificial but an actual dun drifting close by.
Prudence now seemed like the best option. Not wanting to spook this fish, I retrieved my fly and exchanged it for a slightly different pattern which was liberally treated to a fresh stroke with a sticky fingertip full of Gink.
By now, three or possibly four other risers were beginning to take an interest in the local insect menu. My attention was however intimately focused on the one particular specimen which I knew was of very respectable quality.
The dressing I had on was one of my old personally devised favourites, the Blue & Olive Dun. I created this particular pattern in the 1980s with the LDOs of the River Lune in mind but hadn't had much opportunity to put it through its paces on the Hodder at that time. Although I am usually a fully paid up advocate of the "Winged Dry Fly Club" this fly and a few others like it are the exemption to my 'self imposed' rule.
The Blue & Olive's great attraction lies in the manner in which the twin hackles are wound in together. This rather simple technique creates a nice natural sparkle to one's fly which the fish frequently cannot resist. A few of my angling pals, who share my love of the dry fly, have also had success with this easily learnt method. I wrote about this topic quite extensively during the 1990s in the angling press.
This little imitation has a tough, classical appearance which seems to defy the simplicity of its construction. Thus, when dressed well its durability is second to none. More importantly though, the fish really do take it well, especially when the LDO puts in a welcome appearance.
It's also quite deadly when the Olive Upright, (Rhithrogena semicolorata), is on the wing later in the season, usually just in time to greet the Morris Dancers around the May Pole . What a fly this is! It's easy for anglers to identify, looking like a rather large LDO, and game fish will frequently drag it down violently like fit cats ambushing elderly sparrows!
Unlike wild trout, grayling have a reputation for forgiveness. This can be true when faced with a large hungry shoal of medium-sized grayling, yet larger specimens are at times infuriatingly tricky to tempt. Naturally, the bigger fish are that size because of their inherent ability to keep out of trouble with us anglers.
Large grayling will often rise once or twice then simply disappear for hours or even days much to the frustration of the postulant specimen hunter. Luckily though, I was apparently faced today with a few good quality fish that were indeed in a forgiving frame of mind.
As the dark flotilla of duns increased in volume on the surface film I zipped out the fly once again. The brief rest period must have done the fish good for my pattern instantly disappeared under the deep brown, foamy stream. Again I lifted into the fish which, this time, felt well connected.
The metallic orange and blue flash of a startled Kingfisher threatened to take my mind off the task at hand as it almost flew into the arc of my fly line. Normally I love to see these beautiful little birds but today this 'feathered hooligan' was really pushing his luck. Undeterred, I kept a tight reign on my fish as it made a determined effort to seek the safety of the far bank. It was running hard and deep, almost taking me onto the reel backing when it suddenly stopped dead. For what seems like an age, the fish just sat there, riveted to the bottom in a deep gorge some twenty odd yards away. Putting any amount of pressure on him was out of the question for I was using only lightweight, 'double strength' line of just two & three quarter pounds, B/S.
I hadn't set eyes on my anticipated prize yet and was beginning to actually wonder if in fact I'd hooked a salmon, sea trout or large chub. Such species are frequently encountered when using light gear on these Northern streams and all can be real devils to land, taking sometimes upwards of an hour to beat. Contrary to popular belief such events, whilst being doubtless exciting affairs, are an unwanted nuisance when one's sights are firmly fixed on hunting quality grayling. However, my initial instincts were correct.
Before long the fish surfaced, displaying that much appreciated and highly distinctive dorsal fin which glistened like fire as it caught the late bronzed rays of the February afternoon's sun.
Five minutes later my outstretched flip net found its pear-eyed mark, as I thankfully heaved the sleek beauty from the cold waters.
This particular Silver Lady weighed in at 'two and a half pounds,' an excellent specimen grayling on any river and very pleasing to boot.
As the day wore on several more smaller grayling and an out of season sea trout of about two pounds fell to my olive. It was getting rather chilly now and although I'd enjoyed some fine sport, I toyed with the idea of getting back to the car for a nice hot drink . As I carefully trudged over a large wet bounder, watching my step, I was suddenly startled by the sight of another human being. Such creatures are very rare on the Northern streams, especially on the lonely Hodder at this bleak time of year. In fact one is more likely to see a graceful, yet timid, stag than another man out here in the native English wilderness.
However, this little chap was no stranger to me. A wry smile issued out of the young man as he approached. "Hiya Pat, 'ave yer caught out?" enquired Andy the farm lad in his broad Lancashire drawl as he stumbled up to my position on the treacherous wet rocks. Andy often used to appear, as if by magic, on days otherwise empty of human contact. Sometimes he would be accompanied by an old, solid glass spinning rod in the hope of landing a huge salmon.
I never did see him catch anything with that shark-class monstrosity yet I had witnessed a fish of over thirty pounds grassed in this particular pool some years before. Today however, Andy was not fishing but obviously searching for other fishermen's lost spinning lures which would occasionally get snagged on the sharp , near to surface, boulders of the stream. This crafty little collection hobby had a two-fold benefit. Not only did it provide a good 'free' source of plugs spoons and devons, it also cleaned the river of environmentally dangerous items lost on previous high floods.
It was 'finders keepers' and Andy was a dab hand at it. I must admit, I found a few lures myself too on occasion. This pastime was not however without its risks as more than once in the past I stupidly managed to overreach, when attempting to retrieve a stuck lure 'just' out of range, and gained an impromptu soaking for my troubles! Going fully under the river on a winter's day sure isn't funny either. It's not surprising how quickly one learns from such silly mistakes and how fast lessons like this are absorbed into the psyche.
I sat on a rock with the lad and told him about the fish I'd taken before his arrival. He asked me to catch another big grayling 'to order' because he wanted to see how hard they fought. Although he'd observed me land plenty in the past which were smaller, he'd never seen one so large as the two pounder.
"OK, I'll show you how it's done Andy!" I boasted with a wink, not really expecting to ever match my earlier efforts. "Give us yer net an al' land it far yer if yer geet wan!" offered Andy.
Although Andy's life experience on this earth had given him a natural country wisdom far beyond his tender eleven years, his landing skills were to say the least rather debatable. His heart was in the right place, yet his method of landing 'anything that swam' was rather odd.
Without being too cruel or ungrateful, his technique could be likened to a mix somewhere between a very annoyed wasp doing battle with an inaccurate net-flinging gladiator, trying too hard to please the baying mob in a Roman Amphitheatre.
I, and others, had tried to explain this problem to the boy before but at the crucial moment youthful excitement would take over and in would jump Andy thrashing about at the fish like a being possessed. Such splashy fiascos usually resulted in the angler's trophy gaining its freedom, so I politely refused Andy's kind offer and kept the net safely latched under my arm.
Looking up at the sky I noticed that the light was soon to depart as yellowish snow clouds gathered in the West. I had no intention of being stuck out here on the Hodder in the pitch dark at this time of year so I mentally promised myself that ten minutes was all that I was allowed before going back up the hill towards home.
The blackening river was now very quiet. Earlier boisterous falls of LDOs had disappeared, or at least I thought they had, and not a fish stirred.
Just as I was about to turn around and pack up a sudden splash some five yards out caught my attention. Enthusiasm renewed, I called to Andy. "Hey, did you see that? Looks like a good fish!" Before he could reply my line was yet again streaking through the rod rings at breakneck speed.
The cold chill of the February afternoon was soon forgotten as the fish leapt out of the dark mysterious stream like a ballistic missile with a hidden purpose. Andy excitedly romped, half stumbling, over to my position. "Hey that's a good 'en Pat !" he shouted, hardly able to contain his exhilaration. Several nerve-jangling minutes later the big grayling drifted into my waiting net
on its side.
I was silently grateful that I'd politely forbidden Andy from practising his landing technique on this particularly nice specimen! If I'd given him the benefit of the doubt and let him have a go, he may have messed up and lost it for me. Chances are, that would have resulted in him following the 'missing prize' into the river by me shoving him in! OK maybe not, but I would
have been more than 'displeased' for quite sometime to come anyway!
It was a twin for my previous fish, subsequently weighing in at the same very satisfactory two pounds. "There you go-that's how you do it!" I exclaimed with a cocky grin as Andy looked on. "You wanted to see a big one caught so here it is!" I continued.
Andy was wide-eyed and obviously very amazed to see this lovely silver fish, which he'd previously ordered, on the bank. However, being a somewhat pragmatic country boy, he of course didn't wish to appear 'too' impressed. "Jammy I reckons, nowt but jammy! he said wryly as I laughed out loud in response.
A cock pheasant harshly called in the icy stubble field above the river as Andy and I climbed back up through the alder woods toward the muddy farmyard car park.
"See yer again Pat!" waved the lad as he clambered over the wooden gate to the farmhouse. "Yeah, see ya Andy. Next time we'll get some 'bigger' ones!" I responded with a loose comical salute.
Whether I'd in fact been "Jammy" as Andy has joked or not was unimportant. The day had been a golden one which would last in the memory of both people concerned for many years to come. The little number 16, Blue & Olive dry fly had proven its deadly qualities on the Hodder's lusty grayling on a bleak day which had threatened to snow.
I was tired yet very happy. As I drove home through the Forest of Bowland in the inky darkness, my mind was already planning the 'next' visit to that marvellous old river with great anticipation.
THE BLUE & OLIVE DUN
Hook: 12-16 (Fine wire).
Thread: Olive, waxed.
Tail: Blue dun cock hackle fibres.
Body: Grey goose, preferably from the wing of a Pink Footed Goose.
Rib: Primrose tying silk.
Hackles: Medium blue dun cock and medium to dark olive cock wound through each other.