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Chris Ogborne spends
Chris Ogborne spends
his whole life fishing in Cornwall these days. Here he shares three fundamentally different views of his
favourite river, the Camel, with a personal insight into the remarkable
transition from spring to estuary that takes place in barely twenty miles.
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THE MOOR
Buzzards mew from an impossible height,
invisible, yet the sound still travels.
I'm less than a mile from the source of my
favourite river, though here it barely qualifies as a stream. The water is
like fluid crystal, with no hint of the peat stain that it will gather in
its course. The sheep have close-cropped the sparse grass right down to
the water, so much so that it looks in this respect like the manicured
banks of some Hampshire chalkstream, although these banks have seen no
mower in their history, and probably no man this season. Granite tors
break through the thin soil and in the clean air they look stark, even
rugged against the eggshell blue skyline.
The infant river has endless character,
running metre-wide in places through its own miniature gorge or in others
like a shimmering sheet only inches deep. It threads its way between the
gorse, polishing the stones and pebbles on its bed. It is so infinitely
delicate that only the lightest tackle will do. There is rarely need for a
cast longer than twenty feet, and if I'm not going to spook the trout then
that cast will need to be made some fifteen feet from the bank.
Occasionally I have the luxury of a gorse thicket for cover, but for much
of the time I'm on my knees or even on my belly: moorland fishing brings a
whole new meaning to 'skylining'. I must look comical but it matters
not - nobody comes here and I've yet to see another soul this far out on
the moor.
Fly hatches here come at any hour and
this day is no exception. Tiny black duns skip over the water on the
breeze and the rise forms are splashy and aggressive, almost like Irish
lough trout at mayfly time. They have to be fast: food for the trout
is scarse and feeding is competitive. Even as I watch, two little quarter-pounders
rise for the same insect, the flurry of water making a lie of their
diminutive size. As the rings subside I watch intently, yet so good is
their camouflage that still can't see them against the pebbles. I know
they're there, but until they leave station they are invisible. So it's a
blind throw, a cast to the 'best guess' spot should do. The three
weight line lands softly, the 7X tippet even more so, yet still I see the
flash as I've spooked them both! No wonder the locals don't bother with
these fish - possibly the toughest challenge in the county!
A big fish here is half a pound and the one
I'm looking at now is all of that. He's lying behind a two foot boulder
which in turn is snugged against a huge gorse bush. I can't help but
wonder at the scent of that gorse in the air, sweet, almost like coconut
in the warm June sun. The fish rises more slowly than his siblings, sips
more delicately at the skating duns, and returns with precision to
his twelve inch territory. Ten minutes of manoeuvring and I'm below him,
still with enough angle to drop the fly on the boulder. A tweak of the rod
before drag sets in and the fly has its hackles in the film. In less than
a breath there's a splash - so much for the previous delicate rise forms -
and he's on. Sixty seconds of excitement follow. I have to bully him
because I want to release him quickly, yet at nine ounces he fights
better than any Chew three pounder. I have no option but to follow him ten
metres downstream, he's that powerful. I wet the hand, slip the
barbless Calabaetis from his lip, admire him briefly and he's away.
For maybe an hour I'm lost in the beauty
of the place, sitting quietly on the same boulder and breathing in the
gorse scent. I'm reminded of another moment on another continent, with the scent
of the Tea Tree bushes in Australia. But I know where I'd rather be.
The male Buzzard shatters my reverie, calling
from less than fifty feet up and now stooping to a young rabbit. I decide
to climb to the top of the Tor, for a sandwich lunch but more for the
view. Twenty miles away the Atlantic pounds the Cornish coast and
holidaymakers throng the beaches. Yet here is near silence, absolute
peace and total solitude. The unique beauty of the Moor is mine.
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THE VALLEY
The single-note call of the Kingfisher slices
the morning air, before he is gone in a blur and flash of impossible
colour.
Birdsong is everywhere, almost deafening on
occasions as Chaffinches, Tits and Warblers declare their territory. Or
perhaps they simply sing to welcome the sun, only now at 11am cresting the
hills and sending warm fingers into the valley. The Camel is wider now,
ten metres in places, and has become a full grown river. The valley is
deep, almost Swiss in character, with intense emerald firs blending with
ancient oak and beech. The tapestry has more rich hue and tone than
any artist could imagine, or ever contrive to mix.
Bankside growth is dense and often
impenetrable but these are the spots where the better fish lay. Members of the
local club fish here and in autumn the fishing becomes exclusive, as
the late run of Salmon comes in from the Atlantic. But in high summer I
rarely see another angler and there is time to stalk a fish undisturbed.
Easy access to the bank means that other rods will have bent here, so I
look for the tougher spots: nettles may sting and brambles may scratch but
there are no footprints in the mud and it's likely no line has laid on
this pool this season.
I rest for a moment after the struggle,
letting my eyes adjust to the pattern and movement of the water. It's
clear certainly, but tinged brown with the peat through which it has
flowed. The rocks and pebbles are brown too and weed growth is negligible.
So for the trout, camouflage is all. They move only when they feed,
detaching themselves from the river bed to become visible for a moment,
only to sink and blend like ghosts into the brown.
Last year I watched as a shoal of Peal moved
through this pool but I've yet to see them this year. It's probably still
early, but the hope is there. Close to the bank is a deep eddy,
backflowing for many metres and scouring to a depth I can only imagine. I
debate fly choice with myself: should it be Czech nymph, or will I soon
see rises to the little sulphur duns. A tiny ring on the far bank confirms
the choice, and then another farther up seals the matter. I enjoy the
nymphs when I have to, but there's no challenge like the dry fly
challenge. Nymph fishing here can forgive the clumsy cast, but nothing
less than perfection will turn the dry fly under trailing brambles.
Any kind of drag will be greeted with scorn.
The five weight line is definitive for most of
the Camel. Gossamer casts and featherlight presentation are fine up
on the Moor, but here I need more. There's also the wind to contend with, funneling
up from the estuary, warm and with the faintest
scent of the sea. The 8 1/2 foot Gem is the rod, long enough for the
backbone yet short enough to be a good friend in the scrambles through the
undergrowth. But there can be no compromise on the leader: it's still 7X
or at the very most 6X. Anything more and you can hear the fish laughing.
I love this river. In the space of five
minutes the sun has reached us, light has touched the river bed, and fish
are rising everywhere. I literally don't know where to cast. The smaller trout
and the Parr are mid-stream, but the better fish are under the banks. Last
winters floods have left huge logs in their wake, with cover aplenty. The
rise form I caught in the corner of my eye comes again, no fuss, with
deliberate and thicker rings. Only a better fish could move water like
that. The fly lands, drifts, and is ignored. Two casts, two fly changes,
no interest. Exaggerate. The breeze is pushing the flies across the film,
skating them in places. So a tiny Stimulator as all else has failed.
A huge boil. I lift and tighten too fast, against all experience and
training. Solid for a second, then gone. The price for 7X leader has
been paid.
A Dipper sits on a stone and pokes his head
under the water. He bobs for a moment, then disappears. I'd bet
that his success rate this morning is better than mine.
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THE ESTUARY
Hunting Terns scream at each other as they
lift, then plunge for sandeels. Their 'crick crick' call echoes off the
rocks and says 'summer' like no other sound.
It's debatable whether I'm fishing the Camel
here, or the Atlantic. Out from the tidal reaches at Wadebridge, still
further out from the sandbars at Padstow. On my left is the soft bluff of
Stepper, once home to the Lifeboat before the Doom Bar made it's home
impractical. Across the estuary mouth is the mighty rampart of
Pentire, almost purple now with the heather glowing in the afternoon
sun. I'm way out on the sand, at the very bottom of the Spring Tide,
on a beach only revealed with these few big tides each year. I'm sharing
the sand with just one man and his dog, and they're two miles away.
Waiting. The west wind pushes big swells
into Polzeath but here I have shelter from the waves. It's up to my knees,
scarcely splashing my shorts, and my bare feet sink gently into the
softness. I wait and watch because now, exactly now, the tide has turned.
The tables say 7.5 metres tonight and 0.2 right now. I've been
waiting for this tide for the last six weeks.
And here are the first Bass. As each wave
lifts I see the grey shapes, betrayed by the sunlight. The first 'schoolies'
are here, just a few at first but in ever-growing numbers. In seconds they
are behind me and I take my first steps. I can't help the silly grin from
spreading because I know that I now have three hours of absorbing sport in
front of me, following the fish and the tide as it runs up the beach.
Here's a shoal of bigger fish. I lift
off twenty metres of line, possible only because of the new rod. The Hardy
Saltwater was designed for exactly this, even if Andy Murray and his
colleagues had Bonefish in mind and not Britain's sea Bass. It's sight
fishing, totally visual. You need to be fast, and false casts are out:
even fish feeding as hard as these will spook and they seem to have innate
understanding that line flash means danger. Amazingly these fish are
feeding in two inches of water, so shallow that their backs are showing
clear. How do they know that they're safe doing this, only because of the
speed of the advancing tide?
I cast behind me, then turn and cast along the
wave. I see the grey shape surge, flash, and so I strike. If I'd waited
till I felt him he would already have gone. Visual fishing, in the
extreme.
An hour has gone in what felt like two
moments. I've already released ten schoolies, and two bigger fish in the 2
pound class. In the deeper water by the rocks, standing on the sand bar, I
took a Mullet. In the rougher water out towards the estuary flow I took a
three pounder. But the real fun are the school fish. They fight like
no other fish in England, except perhaps a mackerel on fly, which is
another story. Today they feed avidly and with abandon, though on
other days and other tides they can be infuriatingly selective.
The little fry imitators are perfect, though
if I've left the tails too long I get only bumps instead of takes.
Barbless hooks mean that only the most solid of takes are converted to
fish, but such is the sport that it just makes the smile wider.
My three hours have run. The water has reached
almost to the dunes and its time for home. Two bass are in the pouch, and
later tonight they'll be in foil, with only butter and Chardonnay for
company. The sun has left the
Camel for today, but the bare wisps of mare-tail cloud say that the gold
will be back tomorrow.
The magic of the River, which for me is
the magic of Cornwall, will return.
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