Of Christmas Grayling
Jon Ward-Allen
Of Christmas Grayling
The joys of winter fishing
It’s at this time of year that my thoughts turn to grayling, to frosty mornings and gin-clear streams full of darting fish. Last night, to get myself in the mood, I poured a glass of something a wee bit stronger than milk, sat by the fire and started to read the following, written many years ago, by a Mr Walbran, of Yorkshire:
‘There are a great many anglers who are exceedingly keen after sport so long as the banks of their favourite rivers are clothed in the tender green tints of early spring, or in the correspondingly picturesque foliage of summer and autumn, but as soon as chill November sets in and the first white mantle of snow heralds the approach of winter, then the rod is laid aside and not taken in hand again until the swallows are twittering once more among the eaves.
‘Now, to my mind, the country is quite as beautiful in its winter’s garb as it is in the verdant spring or sultry summer. Of course, its beauties are of a different kind - the green leaves, mosses, and ferns are gone, so are the many-hued wild flowers, and the birds which sang to you as you plied your art in search of the keen-eyed trout; but in their place you can admire the surface of the pure white snow, sparkling like diamonds - very different to the black slush found in the streets of our large towns - the sparkling icicles depending from boughs of trees or overhanging rocks; and as you walk briskly down to the stream beyond the spinney, you stop involuntarily to admire the beautiful feathery effect produced by the hoar frost upon the delicate tracery of the twigs.
‘Christmas had come round once more, and for a fortnight previous hard frosts had prevailed; the various rivers in Yorkshire had just got into the condition so dear to the heart of the ardent winter fisherman, and the skating fraternity were experiencing what our transatlantic cousins term ‘a good time’.
‘It has been my invariable custom for very many years to have a real, good, solid, six days’ campaign with the grayling during the week following Christmas, and as the time drew nigh, and the frost showed no signs of giving, I hugged myself with delight at the prospect of a more than usually good week’s sport, more especially as I had in hand three permits for fishing three different lengths on the Yore and Wharfe, where I knew from experience there was ample store of Salmo thymallus.
‘There are a great many anglers who are exceedingly keen after sport so long as the banks of their favourite rivers are clothed in the tender green tints of early spring, or in the correspondingly picturesque foliage of summer and autumn, but as soon as chill November sets in and the first white mantle of snow heralds the approach of winter, then the rod is laid aside and not taken in hand again until the swallows are twittering once more among the eaves.
‘Now, to my mind, the country is quite as beautiful in its winter’s garb as it is in the verdant spring or sultry summer. Of course, its beauties are of a different kind - the green leaves, mosses, and ferns are gone, so are the many-hued wild flowers, and the birds which sang to you as you plied your art in search of the keen-eyed trout; but in their place you can admire the surface of the pure white snow, sparkling like diamonds - very different to the black slush found in the streets of our large towns - the sparkling icicles depending from boughs of trees or overhanging rocks; and as you walk briskly down to the stream beyond the spinney, you stop involuntarily to admire the beautiful feathery effect produced by the hoar frost upon the delicate tracery of the twigs.
‘Christmas had come round once more, and for a fortnight previous hard frosts had prevailed; the various rivers in Yorkshire had just got into the condition so dear to the heart of the ardent winter fisherman, and the skating fraternity were experiencing what our transatlantic cousins term ‘a good time’.
‘It has been my invariable custom for very many years to have a real, good, solid, six days’ campaign with the grayling during the week following Christmas, and as the time drew nigh, and the frost showed no signs of giving, I hugged myself with delight at the prospect of a more than usually good week’s sport, more especially as I had in hand three permits for fishing three different lengths on the Yore and Wharfe, where I knew from experience there was ample store of Salmo thymallus.
‘I had occupied all my spare time during the week preceding Christmas in preparing plenty of spare tackle, as it is a matter of considerable difficulty to wrap hooks on to gut at the river’s side, with the thermometer at freezing point, or even below; there was also a good stock of small red worms in readiness, and my readers can imagine that, with the ground like iron, it is not the easiest matter in the world to procure . . .’
I was rudely awoken from my fireside reverie - “Jon! Jon! Where are you? There are reports of 90mph winds and that place we stayed at last year is three feet under water . . .”
It was happening again - my annual outing after grayling was once again in jeopardy, with Storm Darragh wreaking havoc and creating floods all over the country (actually I prefer to call it what it really was - an extratropical cyclone). I’ve lost count now but I think this is the tenth year I’ve failed to catch a grayling - or even go grayling fishing. There was only one thing to do - put a couple more logs on the fire, add another dram to my glass and return to fishing with Mr Walbran . . .
Merry Christmas to you all!
I was rudely awoken from my fireside reverie - “Jon! Jon! Where are you? There are reports of 90mph winds and that place we stayed at last year is three feet under water . . .”
It was happening again - my annual outing after grayling was once again in jeopardy, with Storm Darragh wreaking havoc and creating floods all over the country (actually I prefer to call it what it really was - an extratropical cyclone). I’ve lost count now but I think this is the tenth year I’ve failed to catch a grayling - or even go grayling fishing. There was only one thing to do - put a couple more logs on the fire, add another dram to my glass and return to fishing with Mr Walbran . . .
Merry Christmas to you all!
Read more by Francis Walbran in
Grayling
and How to Catch Them
And if you'd like to know more about the splendid snowy centrepin reel shown on the opening page of the story see
JW Young & Son Fishing Reels
