Of Local Knowledge
W.H.Canaway
Of Local Knowledge
W.H.Canaway overhears an interesting conversation
The summer holidays, if indeed they could be called that, are coming to a rather wet and windy end. Thankfully they are almost over, but whatever your weather, you may have had an opportunity this year for a spot of fishing in a new place.
Arriving somewhere new is always an adventure and wherever you go, you'll want to know what the locals fish for and how they do it. Watch and learn! But be sure you are observing locals - it's all too easy to spend time watching fellow tourists. I know from personal experience, having watched a rather professional looking fisher carefully set up his tackle on a harbour wall and then try to cast a tiny roach float into the sea against a stiff wind. It was rather entertaining and he even got the float into the water once . . . but I learnt very little.
Even if you latch on to some real locals, will they be helpful? Not necessarily. I'm sure it won't surprise you but they may not actually want to share hard-won information that may lead you to their favourite places or fishing marks. And, indeed, why should they? There's a great story in 'A Snowdon Stream' about Bill Canaway's attempts to find the source of a brace of 'gleaming silver sewin' in North Wales. Here goes:
I had spent a day on the beach at Dinas Dinlle with my family, and we were preparing to return to Bangor, where we were staying with my wife’s people. Cars were parked loosely in line abreast on the sward in front of the beach, for Dinas Dinlle is a deservedly popular little place. Now the angler has a very good ear for fishing talk, and I soon became aware that the two men standing by the next car were fishermen. I heard the word sewin, and pricked up my ears. The two men opened the boot of their car, and I got out of mine, casually and innocently, going round to obtain a better view and hearing Llanfaglan mentioned as I did so. One man was showing the other as nice a basket of fish as I have seen: four brace of gleaming silver sewin.
Abandoning my pretence of being uninterested, I went closer, and admired the catch.
“Where did you get them?” I asked.
A cagey look came into the eye of the man who was holding the basket of fish. It was the look of the successful angler who intends to stay that way. He waved a hand southward, and said, “Oh, on the Llyfni.”
In the desert, the bedouin is supposed by his code of honour to help fugitives by giving misleading directions to his pursuers. I decided that this man was adopting a similar method, for I knew at least that Llanfaglan was not on the Llyfni.
“Oh, the Llyfni,” I said. “I must try it.”
“You do,” said the man, and put his fish away.
I went to Llanfaglan the following day, in the afternoon, and drove through the village until I came to a bridge called Pont Faen. On the right bank of the Gwyrfai, a well-trodden path led by a tiny stream to a stile, which I crossed. I walked speculatively along by the river to another stile, and began to fish just beyond it. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew that I could hardly expect to catch a sea trout, so fished an Olive Nymph as tail fly, and a Partridge and Silver as dropper.
Arriving somewhere new is always an adventure and wherever you go, you'll want to know what the locals fish for and how they do it. Watch and learn! But be sure you are observing locals - it's all too easy to spend time watching fellow tourists. I know from personal experience, having watched a rather professional looking fisher carefully set up his tackle on a harbour wall and then try to cast a tiny roach float into the sea against a stiff wind. It was rather entertaining and he even got the float into the water once . . . but I learnt very little.
Even if you latch on to some real locals, will they be helpful? Not necessarily. I'm sure it won't surprise you but they may not actually want to share hard-won information that may lead you to their favourite places or fishing marks. And, indeed, why should they? There's a great story in 'A Snowdon Stream' about Bill Canaway's attempts to find the source of a brace of 'gleaming silver sewin' in North Wales. Here goes:
I had spent a day on the beach at Dinas Dinlle with my family, and we were preparing to return to Bangor, where we were staying with my wife’s people. Cars were parked loosely in line abreast on the sward in front of the beach, for Dinas Dinlle is a deservedly popular little place. Now the angler has a very good ear for fishing talk, and I soon became aware that the two men standing by the next car were fishermen. I heard the word sewin, and pricked up my ears. The two men opened the boot of their car, and I got out of mine, casually and innocently, going round to obtain a better view and hearing Llanfaglan mentioned as I did so. One man was showing the other as nice a basket of fish as I have seen: four brace of gleaming silver sewin.
Abandoning my pretence of being uninterested, I went closer, and admired the catch.
“Where did you get them?” I asked.
A cagey look came into the eye of the man who was holding the basket of fish. It was the look of the successful angler who intends to stay that way. He waved a hand southward, and said, “Oh, on the Llyfni.”
In the desert, the bedouin is supposed by his code of honour to help fugitives by giving misleading directions to his pursuers. I decided that this man was adopting a similar method, for I knew at least that Llanfaglan was not on the Llyfni.
“Oh, the Llyfni,” I said. “I must try it.”
“You do,” said the man, and put his fish away.
I went to Llanfaglan the following day, in the afternoon, and drove through the village until I came to a bridge called Pont Faen. On the right bank of the Gwyrfai, a well-trodden path led by a tiny stream to a stile, which I crossed. I walked speculatively along by the river to another stile, and began to fish just beyond it. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew that I could hardly expect to catch a sea trout, so fished an Olive Nymph as tail fly, and a Partridge and Silver as dropper.
Only two of the fish were undersized, and I began to feel rather pleased with myself. Now I ought to have been feeling ashamed of myself. Once, on the Lledr, when I was with a friend from Dolwyddelan, we met a youth standing on a bridge 20 feet above the water (one of those £400 a year waters, at that), dangling a worm from a roach rod. He had no licence, and was quite unaware that he was breaking every law in the book: fishing without a licence; fishing from a bridge; fishing private water without permission. He was from Manchester, and said that ‘a man on the street in Betsy-Why-Co-ed’ had told him it would be all right to fish there. Fortunately, his chances of catching anything except rheumatism were minimal. Now that youth didn’t know, and was duly ashamed when enlightened; I did know, and confess I was feeling very happy.
My mood suddenly vanished when a voice spoke behind me. I had allowed my tendency to impulsive action to override my good sense. True, I had a rod licence, and I was not fishing from a bridge; but this was evidently private water. And here came the reckoning. All one’s childhood memories of being captured by irate keepers and fulminating farmers return on occasions like this, and one feels about three inches high. I turned round, to meet the gaze of a pair of steady eyes. The stranger was a farmer, by his clothes, but he was certainly not fulminating.
“Any luck?” he inquired.
I expect I blushed and stuttered a bit, but I showed him the fish, and was taken aback when he smiled appreciatively.
“Nice work,” he observed.
“Look,” I said, “is this your fishing?”
He nodded, still quite unperturbed. Now this sort of friendly calm is quite out of character with the general run
of riparian owners.
“You don’t mind my fishing here?”
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t fish, and I never have done. The fish were here before me, and they’ll still be here after I’ve gone. You come and fish whenever you want to. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, tell them Jack said it was all right.”
Well, Jack is unlikely to read this, but I should like to pay tribute to him, for I should not have discovered the Gwyrfai without his kindness of heart. Since those days, I fear he has had to temper it a little. Some people seem to have taken advantage of his goodness. Only a few litter louts and leavers open of gates, possibly. I still fish Jack’s water, and so do two or three others; but if you go down to the stile by Pont Faen you will find it blocked. It is up to the tidy and considerate angler to take to task those who are dirty and inconsiderate in their habits, for people like Jack are pearls of great price indeed.
My mood suddenly vanished when a voice spoke behind me. I had allowed my tendency to impulsive action to override my good sense. True, I had a rod licence, and I was not fishing from a bridge; but this was evidently private water. And here came the reckoning. All one’s childhood memories of being captured by irate keepers and fulminating farmers return on occasions like this, and one feels about three inches high. I turned round, to meet the gaze of a pair of steady eyes. The stranger was a farmer, by his clothes, but he was certainly not fulminating.
“Any luck?” he inquired.
I expect I blushed and stuttered a bit, but I showed him the fish, and was taken aback when he smiled appreciatively.
“Nice work,” he observed.
“Look,” I said, “is this your fishing?”
He nodded, still quite unperturbed. Now this sort of friendly calm is quite out of character with the general run
of riparian owners.
“You don’t mind my fishing here?”
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t fish, and I never have done. The fish were here before me, and they’ll still be here after I’ve gone. You come and fish whenever you want to. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, tell them Jack said it was all right.”
Well, Jack is unlikely to read this, but I should like to pay tribute to him, for I should not have discovered the Gwyrfai without his kindness of heart. Since those days, I fear he has had to temper it a little. Some people seem to have taken advantage of his goodness. Only a few litter louts and leavers open of gates, possibly. I still fish Jack’s water, and so do two or three others; but if you go down to the stile by Pont Faen you will find it blocked. It is up to the tidy and considerate angler to take to task those who are dirty and inconsiderate in their habits, for people like Jack are pearls of great price indeed.
Read more about Welsh trout fishing in W.H.Canaway's' classic book
A Snowdon Stream
A Snowdon Stream
