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return to the outdoors?

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-07-02T21:27:18+01:00

I booted up the old mac this evening to find a surprise, an email from a PR company pointing me towards a new website and asking me to take a look and see if it was worth letting you guys know about it.

I'm torn, on one hand it's actually supporting an amazing cause and although american based it seems to do great things and be entirely worthy of all of our support. On the flipside it's a pr company being paid well for the efforts of others and other peoples sites. Is it a blanket email to anyone google finds with the words outdoors or fishing or has someone actually read my ramblings and decided that I'm worth contacting? While I continue to ponder that question I thought what the hell, I'll do more than link the site Return To The Outdoors, I'll also embed the video from their front page. It's an interview with a serious icon and someone who I can look at as one of my inspirations. Environmentalist and author Yvon Chouinard, founder of Chouinard Equipment, Patagonia and One Percent for the Planet, and it's well worth a listen. Yvon, in the extremely unlikely event that you ever get to hear of my little corner of the web I'll extend the offer of some chalkstream fishing any time you're in the UK, it'd be an honour to meet you.

~ malcolm

spiritual my arse!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-06-30T07:56:36+01:00

No, I'm not implying that my derriere is somehow imbued with spiritual powers, although I know some ex girlfriends who believe that to be true (there was also a guy at Bournemouth Uni who decided, anyway, lets just say that love remained unrequited...) No what I'm referring to is that I went over to help police the summer solstice at Stonehenge earlier this month.

Basically I spent a few hours driving round the henge landscape getting the odd crusty to put out their fires and picking up litter. Solstice used to be a spiritual occasion at the henge, this year? Well, lets just say it's now more like a chaotic music festival, without the music. The area is now so full of beered up jeering chavs that there is no silent majesty as the sun turns up, just a special brew infused roar. English Heritage are their own worst enemies in this, as they've made it so well organised now, with floodlights and marshalls and the trappings of 'safe' modern society. The net result, the stones have about as much spirituality and dignity left as the solstice park KFC car park on a sunday afternoon, that is to say nada, 何も, zip, rien, ничего. Nothing but the piles and piles of rubbish littering the ground once all the vauxhall corsas have moved on taking their burberry clad drivers, complete with 'pumping' sound systems, home. Like the rest of the year, I'm amazed by just how diminished the stones are, English Hieritage's cash cow, let's face it, what's in it for them to make changes to the visitor facilities Etc? They don't want to reduce the number of people who go there or make access more difficult, it would loose them a fortune.

The countryside is starting to turn, colours becoming slightly browner. Nothing noticeable unless you really look, but the beginnings of the move into summer clothing for fields. The wild meadow at Bullbridge, full of meadow sweet, is almost ready for it's haircut. The Nadder, as it always does at this time of year is really coming into it's own now. High vegetation but if you can cope with the nettles, himalayan balsam and giant hogweed (yup, that's what I said, 8' high triffids with poisonous sap! perfect!)

you don't need to be posh to be privileged

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-06-04T21:35:45+01:00

Sometimes you take a step back, or at least I do, and realise that there are some experiences in life that money doesn't buy. I don't mean the obvious gushy things, but sometimes, just sometimes, you encounter something in your day to day life that makes you take that step back. Something that touches you in some way. The beauty of these encounters is that they are different for everyone, it's one of the things that makes us individuals and interesting.

I remember a few years back going to do some contaminated land testing at a closed down steelworks in Sheffield. Walking into the factory caused an immediate reaction to me, it was pure living industrial archaeology. The dartboard still had scores written in chalk, a tea mug still sat on the window sill. The workers had simply been forced to down tools one day and they left and closed the doors behind them.

Well, today I had a similar experience (although totally different if that makes any sense at all). I went over to West Dorset to look at Bottleknapp cottage with a view to installing a ground source heat pump instead of oil or lpg. Well anyway, the cottage was lovely as one would expect given it's age and location in the world.

What set it apart in my mind was when I opened a cupboard door to find messages from a succession of artists who had lived at the property. As far as I could see they traced a period of time covering 1956 through to January 2008. It seems quite silly when looking at the pictures, but these simple and often unreadable messages really gave me a ghostly touch of the people who had shared this house. Most of these would never have met and some of whom are long gone, but the cottage in it's isolated splendor remained. A flint and thatch thread connecting people across generations.

Like the days I get to spend on the rivers that haunt my dreams it's moments like this that will fill my life's story. Unforgettable snapshot moments, like pictures indelibly etched in my often over-full brain.

These things, not a fancy oil painting or tapestry; To me, they're the real gems. The human fingerprints that are all too easily lost.

more a circus than a carnival

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-05-21T07:03:52+01:00

I'm not sure what it is about a certain insect - For now we'll refer to her as a Ms D. Anica. She turns up once the winter clothes have been shed, she flits about for a day or two, flashing off her lithe body, freshly exposed to the spring weather and then she's gone. Like a chance encounter with a woman that makes your heart stop in a busy city street. Trout and angler alike are patently unable to resist her charms, and she knows it the dirty tease, bobbing back to the waters surface to lay her eggs, playing chicken with the spotty behemoths lurking beneath the surface.

All I know is that once she arrives our little rivers go crazy. Crazy in that fish are smashing into any artificial that resembles Ms D. Anica, and crazy in that every angler sneaks days off and heads for the Avon. The only time that you'll see car parks full and river banks busy throughout the whole year.

Deliberately heading away from the Amesbury circus I headed down the valley towards the Woodfords yesterday evening and fished a nice quiet hatch pool and some shallow, riffly water that is sheltered from the wind. Just a couple of yellow insect teases floating about, but not enough for the fish to be taking any notice of their blatant provocation. But, to my surprise, fish were busy feeding everywhere and in the 2 hours before I had to head back home I brought 10 fish to hand, from 9" through to about 15". A thoroughly relaxing evening and it just reminds me that if you avoid the circus and just fish away from the crowds you can have a carnival all of your own.

~ malcolm

assaulted!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-05-08T08:34:21+01:00

The last 2 weeks have seen something of an explosion of activity in the countryside around here. After the long dreary colourless months of winter this sudden change comes as nothing short of an assault on your senses; Millions of shades of green abound in the woodlands, supported by a bright carpet of magnificent bluebells. Cherry blossom litters the streets like leftovers from Notting Hill carnival, just without the McD's wrappers and beer bottles. Someone appears to have stitched yellow patches onto the countryside. Rape seed, artificial in it's brightness dot's across the Wiltshire fields. Roadside verges with their greens darkening as the weather warms are now dotted with white from the cow parsley, daisies and a huge variety of other flowers (the council haven't come out on their roadside flowers massacre yet).

All in, as you drive round Wiltshire at the moment you can almost drink in the heady aroma, almost see the pulsing heart of the country growing in front of your eyes.

And the fishing? Well, if you're sat in your office in London, my advice is take the day off...

winkle

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-05-02T17:39:23+01:00

So, utilising what apparently is a mostly British word, I came, I saw, I winkled!

After a fairly hectic week dashing from place to place with work (although, undeniably they are lovely places!) I snuck off for an hours fishing this afternoon. The heavy downpours mid week have rendered the Nadder and Avon chocolate coloured, well OK, the Avon is more a minestrone soup as you can just about see through to the river bed. Anyway, uhmm, I was saying, oh yes, the rivers are mostly yucky so in a flash of uncharacteristic inspiration I figured out that e does indeed equal mc squared, that the answer to most of life's questions appears to be 42 and perhaps most importantly that the upper Wylye, Bourne and Ebble would be totally clear as they run clear through almost everything that the rain gods could throw at them.

Given that I only wanted a quick dash out from home I plumped for the Ebble and accepting that this may well mean that I do nothing more energetic than drown some cdc feathers off I trotted.

The weather was warm, and bright sunshine only interrupted by the odd cloud made me smile somewhat inanely as I scooted along the Chalke Valley towards Broadchalke. Singing at the top of your voice in the car can only be called cool if noone else actually sees you. I must report that I'm not sure the three girls in the car in front of me thought I was particularly cool as I succumbed to the violent femmes and belted out blister in the sun as loud as I could.

A strong breeze smacked me in the face when I got out of the car but undeterred I slowly made my way along the weed strewn stretch by the road. My small nymph spent more time being blown onto the weed rafts than actually drifting down the channels but the casts where either the wind didn't blow, or the wind blew and corrected my sloppy casts resulted in 4 lovely 9" wild fish. Bars of gold, bedecked with stars of fiery red and orange; Truly magnificent beasties to hold, even for a few seconds.

Fishing above the barbed wire fence as the river turns away from the road rewarded me with another two fish, the biggest some 13" or so.

Six fish from such a wonderful wild piece of water is enough for me, so rather than fish to the end of the beat I chose to turn around and wander back through last years reeds, detritus from the winter floods and the lush new nettles, just beginning to show their thorny crowns. It took me a whole season to get my first fish from the Ebble when I started fishing Salisbury's waters, so six in an hour just seemed magical. Truly a case of winkling a fish ~ next time, Deverill, you will be mine!

Half way back I spooked a lone swan who was honking mournfully about on the river some 12' from the remains of a nest. One egg remained in the middle of the nest and I found another about 20' downstream in the reeds. Neither egg was damaged, but both looked to be pretty scratched. Didn't really come to any conclusions about what could have done that to a bird as large and ferocious as a nesting swan, one thing I do know is that given it's location, human intervention is highly unlikely.

~ malcolm

wiley wylye

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-04-22T18:56:31+01:00

I just got back in from a day spent on the river Wylye with a writer/angler and a photographer. I'm not going to write about that, I'll leave it to the professionals, suffice to say however that it was a fantastic day. Not the best day for fly hatches, but one of those elusive 'memorable' days. Thanks Paul & Rod, great to meet you both.

What did get me thinking was that angling truly is one of those pastimes that bring you into contact with the most interesting, diverse group of people. Jeremy Clarkson wrote in the times the other week that anglers were a group of people who hate their families, as if in some way the river makes us anti-social. Perhaps he was talking about carp anglers, and in which case OK, I can see that given their propensity to squirrel themselves away in bivvies for days at a time waiting for a beep to go off. River fishing however, and roaming trout fishing in particular is an altogether more social experience, but I can't imagine that Mr Clarkson would ever get invited. Lets face it, would you want to spend a day chatting to the self opinionated, eco-phobic arse?

The actual fishing is one thing, but increasingly to my mind, what sets it apart is those down times in-between. Basking in the sunlight chatting while you let the water rest, the pint at the end of the day, the sense of shared pain when a fish is spooked or lost. A days fishing therefore is definitely a case of being greater than the sum of it's parts.

As my guests were getting back into their cars and dreading the 6hr journey back up north I jokingly suggested I might pop in on the Nadder on the way home. I left the camera at home so thought I'd resurrect an old photo but I did it, first Nadder trout of the year. One about a quarter of a pound, the other around a pound. Thanks go to Frank who tied the fly, you may think your eyesight is going but it seems no-one told the fish!

~ malcolm

humble pie

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-04-16T20:13:00+01:00

First things first. I'm genuinely humbled by the fact that people have been willing to donate hard earned money to help me keep writing, snapping and publishing. Nice to know that I may be doing something that people actually like to look at and read. Thanks guys! (and of course if you'd like to donate, even a tiny amount, you can make a donation via paypal using the new easy-peasey button on the right.) Every weenie bit helps.

Other than to say thanks and keep begging, today was a short update to let people know that today was something of a landmark. I took the not-so-wee lad fishing again today. He's been really enjoying sitting watching a float with me, searching for perch but today I took him fly fishing for the first time. Casting was a bit of an issue, then at 4yrs old I didn't imagine it would be anything but. Retrieving the line was somewhat erratic, mostly done on the reel which made the rod tip jerk around violently with every turn.

BUT

He caught his first trout on a fly, and at 4yrs old I think that's cause for celebration. Of course, it wasn't any old fly, not for my son! It could only have been a dry fly :)

Stealing directly from Mr Maclean

"He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first class fishermen on the sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favourite, was a dry fly fisherman."

Anyway, I may not be a religious man, but I find that by turns amusing and touching.

Amsterdam? Nah, Tulips from Barrington Court is what you want ;)

~ Malcolm

april showers

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-04-13T08:06:53+01:00

The trout season on our waters opened, as usual, on april fools day. I've managed a few trips to the waters so far, a couple hours on the Nadder, an afternoon on the Avon and a day on the headwaters of the Wylye. Not a whole heap to report to be honest, the rivers are high and coloured still, air temperatures are on the chilly side and although fish are being caught it's not the norm. I think April forgot the definition of shower so I thought I'd better remind it:

See the reference to brief and light? Last night Wilton looked more like an alpine village as over an inch of hail covered the ground, having fallen in under 2 minutes.

But anyway, it's early days in the fishing year. Raise a glass to warm sunny days for me!

What else has been going on? Well, house sale fell through, something major that a solicitor missed when we bought the place. Means I now start a lengthy legal battle to resolve it all. Something that fills me with no small amount of dread.

You may notice that I've removed the google ads from the corner of the page. As a way to help raise the cash for me to continue writing this without selling out and accepting sponsorship and adverts it has proved singularly unsuccessful. In fact, they've eared me $3.67 in 3 months... I don't want to do a formal charging scheme, mainly as I'm not sure people would actually be willing to pay to be subjected to my ramblings. What I thought I'd do, and this way there is no expectation at all, is ask for help.

If you enjoy the site, if I can give you a smile when you're sat in the office away from the rivers all I'll ask is that you think about making a paypal donation to (malcolm@nadder-diary.net). I'll leave it up to you as to whether you do or not, but even the odd £1, £5 or £10; Whatever you feel appropriate. It would all help go towards keeping the site together. I hope to keep the site going anyway, regardless of whether people feel up to making a small donation to the cause, but it depends just how expensive my oncoming legal fight becomes!

Anyway, drop me an email if you are able to help, even if only a tiny bit.

~ malcolm

oh, yes, almost forgot. Look at how the Bourne ends up where it flows into the Avon. A disgusting mess, full of litter and human detritus. Unloved and uncared for. The funny thing is, despite the mess, the water still runs clear as gin and hidden away I could see the odd fish tailing in the current.

wild trout trust auction

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-04-03T19:36:08+01:00

Just a heads up really this time. The Wild trout trust auction is up online (www.wildtrout.org) and can be found on ebay here. Among the lots you may find lots 147 and 181. Bid more for them! Really, it's a great charity and as a bonus you get some great fishing from both lots.

You can fish some nice relaxing Avon waters, have a good chance of catching some fish, have a lovely day and think no more than that. OR, you could try some true wild chalkstream... I won't go into too much detail as I cover that many times, but will leave you with a couple piccies to whet your appetite. Never stocked, truly wild, fish to 2lb and by god, you'd be lucky to catch one! The perfect spot to challenge yourself though :)

~ fancy, ebay giving you the opportunity to buy me, well, for a day at least! Worth every penny I say... Malcolm

who, what, where?

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-03-28T09:06:26+00:00

Memory is a funny thing, something we mostly take for granted especially in this day and age of digital photography, instant communication and online instant sharing of photo's and videos. We all experience how music can often trigger memories, for me The Pixies are forever entwined with days traveling round Cornwall looking for surf or likely skate spots and Afrikaa Bambata's planet rock will always remind me of younger days spent painting little dungeons and dragons figures in the house in Netherhay. Just the first couple of bars of a tune is all it takes to bring back distant memories as if they occurred yesterday.

What I often forget however is that smells can do the same. I was walking along a stretch of the upper Wylye the other day and well, it just smelt of spring. Hard to describe the smell as it was something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, perhaps as much as anything it's the smell of optimism, of the promise of the summer sun, days on the river bank, bbq's and lazy evenings. Just that faint smell on the breeze is all it takes to be all geed up, willing the winter to finally be over.

It made me think a bit more about the smells of my childhood and I came up with a relatively short list; freshly baked bread at home, breakfast frying at my grannies cottage in Hertfordshire, cut grass, Hay on a hot summers day, mud (just in general although this one covers thousands of different scenarios). I know, it all seems like a rural idyl, very darling buds of may, but the smells that really bring back memories of growing up for me are somewhat grittier. The faintest whiff of petrol, diesel or grease and I'm yanked back through time to sedgemoor plant hire, able tool hire, yph, the big barn at the Yews and Pete's tractor shed. With the places come names and faces; Dick Colbourne, Frank Biddlecombe, Phillip Forsey, Ralph (who I've only ever met once in my life when he wasn't slightly covered in oil) and countless others. Most of all however, there was always dad. Thanks old boy, you didn't do half bad :)

The inconsequential angler

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-03-10T18:00:28+00:00

Sometimes I wonder why I ramble on and on here. I don't get any financial reward (infact I was trying out google ads and have made a sum total of $2.74 in the last 2 months I guess I'm not retiring any day soon), I don't have sponsors knocking on my door offering me free stuff, I don't have hordes of fishing groupies (does such a thing exist?) and I'm still no closer to writing for print.

I may not be as important, recognised or lofty as some who write but I suppose I am a part of a growing movement of amateur (some would add, rank) writers using the internet as a vehicle for their meandering thoughts. I know that people read this at least as I still get thousands of unique visitors each month and I know for a fact that I don't have that many family members with internet connections.

Maybe I write as it's cheaper than a therapist?

The storm that wasn't is raging away outside as I write this, to be honest it is a bit windy, there's the odd branch on the roads but we seriously didn't need the emergency, panic, chaos, danger-will-robinson warnings that we have received over the weekend. The Nadder is once more a raging chocolate torrent today, swelled by downpours, hard to believe that there are only a few weeks to go to the start of the trout season. I'm starting to get itchy feet, waiting not-so-patiently for the clocks to change, the weather to warm and to allow the Nadder to weave it's magic through my soul for another summer.

I'll leave you with the view from my office.

four seasons

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-02-28T22:12:38+00:00

A few days away; Hail, thunder, sunshine, downpours, gales, rainbows, calm and all before lunch. You have to love Ireland.

As a buildings lover I always enjoy my trips to Ireland. They have, to my mind some of the most fantastic built history, the trouble is it seems that no-one gives a stuff about it all. There are Dallas style timber frame houses going up every 500m along every road right from Cork to Bushmills, disgusting 5 bedroom things that all look exactly the bloody same. Interspersed with these monstrosities are some quite innovative contemporary modern buildings and for their willingness to embrace the new I applaud the Irish. The trouble is that for every contemporary build there are 10 hideous grey boxes with sweeping drives and the sense of community and place that traditional Ireland was built on is eroded more and more with every one. Think a constant ribbon development along every main road, with no real communities or small villages. YUCK!

With the love of construction and design, coupled with the fantastic historic building stock you'd think there would be some simply fantastic renovations going on across the emerald isle. You'd think huh? There are some odd exceptions to the rule but... From tumbling down cottages in Kerry to the imposing waterside warehouses in L'Derry there seems to be an air of decay, a lack of interest in the old, or simply a lack of understanding of the importance of these iconic buildings. Perhaps in the north it's the years of troubles? Maybe people have had more important things to worry about or their sense of community is grounded in the people rather than the buildings? I couldn't tell you.

What I could say though is that I adore Ireland, the Republic and North alike but every time I go back expecting to see the movement to protect their heritage gaining apace I'm dumbstruck by more timber frame boxes and yet more farm buildings being left to rot. Sooner or later the Irish will wake up and I pray it's not too late. For every year those buildings get more dilapidated they become more expensive to fix, every time they get hemmed in by grey wooden Dallas style ranches they lose something indefinable. Something of the Irish spirit and way of life goes the way of the dodo with every one.

~ malcolm

valen who?

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-02-14T17:07:50+00:00

It's that time of year again. Card vendors and florists across the country are rubbing their hands with glee as people panic buy blue cuddly bears and bunches of roses that have miraculously doubled in price over the last couple of weeks. I'm not going to rant, not even a little bit although I think people may be able to guess at my moral indisposition to the whole valentines day thing. I'd much rather someone gave me a mix CD or something (hint hint) that came from the heart rather than the wallet any day of the week.

Meanwhile while awaiting the fishing season, spring has crept up (quicker than last year) and is giving me some very very lovely days walking in woodlands and sitting eating fish and chips on the quayside waiting for the boat to Brownsea. My freckles are out, my back is warm and here's to a lovely happy summer!

~ malcolm

why?

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-01-30T09:05:04+00:00

To my non-fishing friends I'm something of an oddity with my desire, if not need, to go fishing. Many people more auspicious and worthy than me have, over the years tried to find a way to express their reasons for fishing. Like them, I'm not sure that my own ramblings can convey my feelings. I've struggled trying to explain what it about fishing that captures not only my attention, but also that of the millions of others in the UK that share my piscatorial predilection but I still have to have a shot at it.

To some it may seem like it's simply a case of having something to do, an excuse to be outdoors. You know, wind in your face, sun on your back; That sort of thing. I've always been an outdoors sort of guy and there is definitely an element of that general outdoors, feel-good nature to fishing. That said you can also get that same level of connection from a myriad of other activities. If it's only a fix of fresh air that's needed I can cycle, walk, surf and a whole host of other such things and knowing this I find myself back again with the question of why fish?

To my mind, beyond the connection garnered from the above, fishing provides one with the opportunity to form a deeper bond, to delve a little further into the natural world. I find that when fishing my attention is drawn to the minutiae of life; The birds, the trees, the weather, the flies and insects around you, the sunlight, the shade, the ripples, swirls and currents of the surface. Added to this there is the mental picture of a subsurface world of gravels, reeds, weed, roots and bankside cover, sunny shallows and deep dark pools. Together they all merge together into a rather one sided conversation between river and angler. Perhaps what fishing allows me to do is to be more able to listen to that babble and have at least some success at translating the multiple channels into manageable chunks. On the whole a successful angler is either just plain lucky, or is someone who has the ability to process that one sided conversation and in some way understand the conflict in a fish between caution and the need to grab food quickly, before someone else does.

I suppose there's the inevitable conclusion of the hunter gatherer about fishing and this does ring somewhat true. There is something that draws you back in time, something that takes you away from the modern world and reinforces your need, on a basic level to be able to fend for yourself. It reminds you that no amount of iphones or fancy cars can quite remove you from that deeper, darker animal background that underpins every one of us.

I have a sneaky feeling that what draws me to fishing is, ultimately, greater than the sum of it's parts. My belief, unfounded as it may be, is that there is a deep seated connection between our psyche (some more than others) and the natural world. A primeval bond that can't be fully explained. I'm sure there's a fantastic research paper in that somewhere...

My own experience has shown me that over and above the connection that comes through fishing I am grounded to the natural world increasingly through physical work on the rivers. Perhaps it's in my nature, perhaps it's bigger than me but saw in hand, blisters, cuts and nettle stings I find I can achieve a true peace. In this world of needing money to survive, constantly striving for that next pay rise with gadgets and stuff being a measure of an individuals worth perhaps I actually fish as a replacement for the fact that in truth I should have been a gamekeeper, riverkeeper or warden? Perhaps it's actually about time that these jobs, the living breathing custodians of our natural world, were paid a fair wage?

Oh blimey, I rambled off on one there and haven't even had a drink! Brought on no doubt by another sterling work party on the rivers last weekend. Thanks again guys!

The usual photo essay for the week follows!

~ malcolm

mobius loop

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-01-21T22:25:22+00:00

Much as I should be really pleased and thankful that the rivers are high up the banks, the fields saturated and the aquifers recharging I can't quite get past the fact that it's bloody miserable. I just wish it'd stop raining for a few days and give us some nice crisp cold weather, I'm so fed up of soggy, miserable weather. I want to be able to get out for a long walk, feel crunchy frost underfoot, sit and let the winter sun warm my back and just feel refreshed by the outdoors. Some whit always comes up with the 'there's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing' remark. That's fine and dandy but no amount of good clothing will make this sludgy, brown, sloppy mess of countryside feel exciting. Fields that during the summer held corn or happily grazing sheep, now look like marshland. There were swans grazing on the road verges as I drove towards Stapleford yesterday, a sure sign of how awful the fields must be if they are so unpleasant that swans are displaced.

In previous years I've had the distraction of running away to the snow to lift my spirits. This year, the failure to sell the house, the new job and the added incentive of reducing my carbon footprint mean that I'm here for the duration. Every sodding sodden last minute of it.

Funny though, how things go in circles. Life follows art follows life and all that.

I seem to remember slopping around in mud last year, looking at snowdrops on the banks of the nadder. Today I found myself doing the exact same thing. A reminder if you will that spring is just around the corner, light is at the end of the tunnel and hopefully, it isn't an oncoming train...

Just close your eyes and imagine a warm day, mid may. The river is glistening, the mayfly are streaming off and you have the place to yourself. Trout are rising, the surface dappled like raindrops. Close your eyes and feel the warmth flow into you as the sun invigorates your senses. Not long now and this year you will get that epic day on the river, I can feel it.

~ malcolm

They moved Bristol!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2008-01-13T19:06:46+00:00

I've broken the record for my most disastrous car journey within the UK. I spent Thursday up at Tyntesfield, near Bristol airport (ironically as it turns out, looking at water resource issues). The drive up was a tad damp to say the least, some large puddles on the roads, especially driving through Chew Magna. Nothing out of the ordinary though just your average wet British winter day albeit as gloomy as A A Milne's famous thistle eating donkey and as wet as a stage dive in Billingsgate fish market.

About halfway through the afternoon the rain turned to a very very thick, wet, snow like substance. It wasn't a real snow, more a cold thick ice, slush puppy in appearance. Probably somewhere between kyck uck yackuck and yuckyck kyck cayuck in inuit (hey, that's what the weather forecast used to sound like when I lived in Canada). Anyways, the murky grey stuff fell thick and fast and I left the estate through an inch or so of slush on the roads. Trying to cross the Bristol to Weston road proved tricky, a ford focus was sat at a 45 degree angle with water up to it's windows, something told me I wasn't going to get through, unlike the people in the golf who drove past me pooting their horn, straight into the flood, straight up to midway up the doors, a soaking, and an expensive repair bill. What then transpired was that every road I tried to get south from the area was flooded at one point or another and traffic was starting to gridlock. Ahahaaa! a brainwave... I turned round and headed for Nailsea and the m5 thinking a quick trip north and then along the m4 a little and I'd be home in no time. After about an hour to cover 10 miles, getting totally lost in Nailsea I made it to the m5. Nailsea for those who don't know it is another place, like Yate, where signposts to get out of the town don't exist. I assume its the sort of festering pusshole where the council can't afford to let people know how to get out else there'd be no-one left in the place. It truly has to be Bristol's stinky wet armpit.

I foolishly thought that things were going well as I passed Gordano services, the motorway moving freely however I soon ground to a halt along with hundreds and hundreds of others. Eventually the radio informed me of an accident but that the traffic was still moving, albeit slowly. After an hour of stop-go traffic the cheery radio informed me that the m5 was now, infact, closed. ARGHHH.

Still, off the motorway, into Cribbs Causeway, into Clifton, another hour and a bit, and I was in Bath and feeling like I was on the home straight. That last kick in the ass however was a succession of people driving at 35/40mph along the road. Why do people buy 6 litre Audis and BMW's etc and then drive them around like horse carts?

Six long hours in the car and I was home, safe in the embrace of my little corner of Wiltshire. What I really want to know, is how did they move Bristol up north of Manchester without me noticing?

~ malcolm

that was the year that was

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-12-31T10:39:19+00:00

So, 12 months ago today I was writing about a life falling apart around my ears. Through 2007 I've met some of the most amazing people, learnt to laugh and have fun, quit a job, found a new one, failed to sell my house, figured out a few of my Crohn's triggers and even managed to spend some time on the rivers in between all that.

I can safely say that 2007 has been a long roller-coaster. Stealing a line from the band snow patrol and misappropriating it for my own use, I'm hoping that in 2008 my life can become the traffic jam instead of the car crash.

The year however has drawn to a close and although not quite as pleased to see it go as I was last year, I'm definitely looking forward to 2008.

In an attempt to bust peoples broadband connections I'm going to add a quick snapshot of the year that was 2007...

happy new year!

jingle jingle jingle

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-12-22T14:01:45+00:00

ho ho ho

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-12-19T08:38:57+00:00

So the world's gone all-a-crazy on some capitalism infused shopping high, town is looking like more like a scene from the film 300 than a Wiltshire market town. Avoiding the cold induced frostbite that is pike fishing in this weather and neatly side stepping the stay-at-home-and-watch-strictly-come-dancing torpor I did the decent thing and went for a walk.

Frozen leaves and crispy, frost coated grass crunching underfoot (sounds like an american breakfast cereal, just add in sugar, colourings and chocolate) as I walk, my spirits are soon soothed as I watch the old heron prowling the shallows, the squirrels sorting out their last bits and pieces before winter proper kicks in and send the pheasants spiraling skywards from the brush. I spent a good 15 minutes on the bridge of the main hatch pool in Wilton watching the pink pike running the race upstream, leaping, rolling, tirelessly striving forwards; Looking for all the world like a scrum in Debenhams. Perhaps the natural world and the human world aren't so different after all? We just respond to different callings. The urge to make those ancient spawning grounds and get on doing the do, Vs the urge to buy novelty boxer shorts, christmas santa hats and cheap tat. It really is the most wonderful time of the year...

In the words of Mr MacGowan:

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

scribbled in chalk

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-12-03T21:06:58+00:00

A number of our local chalk streams are, in reality, a fairly static environment. Weed grows in mostly the same spots year after year, the dab chicks are in the same hidey holes, the fish lie in the same swims. Sure there is some movement around, a new snag forms, a scour hole appears with some fresh shiney gravel but in the main things you learn one season will mostly still be in place the year after.

Hard won lessons on the Nadder however are somewhat more transient. By September you feel that you have a measure of the river, you know where to chuck the fly, you know just how the current will drag in certain situations. You know that if you approach from just here that you can get a line in and the backcast is clear. The truth is however that the knowledge may as well be scribbled on the river bed in chalk, just waiting for that first spate of the autumn. Walking the Nadder today it became very clear, very quickly, that come March I'm going to be starting from scratch. The river is close to the bank tops, running a muddy chocolate brown colour and our silver tourists are moving their way up through. Murky dark silhouettes the only clue to their presence in the tumultuous torrent that the river has become.

No photo today I'm afraid, I just wanted to drop down that thought before it dissapeared...

Oh and thanks to Karine Polwart for the title.

supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-11-24T20:14:05+00:00

Does anyone ever read the titles? I always forget that I've given a title to my ramblings, then I bump into someone who says 'what was the dog days' about? Well, hopefully I'll really flummox them this time!

So, what's been going on since the last meander? Ohh, November's been a long month. Long but good I guess. There's been frosty mornings, long walks, a bit of fishing, fireworks, trips to Brownsea Island, a crashed hire car, a new hire car and today, a work party on the headwaters of the river Wylye. The same bit mentioned in the 5/7/07 entry so search for it there if you need to.

Anyways, this is nothing more than a public opportunity to say thank you to everyone who turned up. It was a great day and we really got a whole load done. Oh, and the fact that the fishery is 10 mins away from my new office had absolutely nothing to do with me choosing it for a work party. Honest!

~ malcolm

purfick

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-11-08T22:09:37+00:00

Some days you just know. You know things are going to go well, or badly, from the moment you wake up and the day filters through the sleepy dust and caffeine withdrawal.

Last Thursday, I woke up and knew it was going to be a bad day. My neighbor cheerily let me know at 7:30 that a cat/fox/rat had been at the bins, so I spent a while picking up rubbish from the alley. Halfway to work I had a phone call to say my boy had broken his collar bone, so a swift turnaround had me flying back towards Wilton, and then onto Salisbury district, where he'd been taken by ambulance. I stopped at home, ran in to get some stuff to take to hospital, came out after 10 minutes to find that someone had crashed into the hire car and driven off... As I say, some days you just know.

Sunday on the other hand was pretty much a good day from the second I woke up. I had planned to head up to the Kennet carriers near Newbury for a days Grayling fishing, as mentioned last time. I peeked out of my curtains groggily to see a heavy thick fog blanketing the world. Having grown up in Dorset I have a thing for fog, apart from on the westcountry moors I've never seen it roll in as thick as it does in Dorset. I remember many an evening driving back from the Windwhistle through fog so thick that you could barely see the end of the bonnet.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the world was cold and grey. Cold, grey and damp, but I quite like it like that to be honest. I threw on some warm clothes and headed out for the car and then gingerly drove up north (north from here anyway, hell I had to even go on the m4, that's a long way north to me!). There were no other cars on the roads (or maybe there were and I just couldn't see them?) so the journey was blissfully peaceful, just the dulcet tones of the smashing pumpkins serenading me at full volume for company. I find some irony in the fact that having crawled through heavy fog for an hour, the fog lifted a bit just as I got to the m4 and then what do I see? A 12' sign flashing FOG at me, as if to make sure I'd been paying attention. Honestly, do you really need a sign to tell you it's foggy? Surely the lack of visibility ought to give it away? What we really need is a big sign that only works from 9am til 6pm that flashes 'DARK SOON' in big letters to remind you that it'll soon be nighttime. Or writing on takeaway coffee cups that says caution, drink may be hot... Oh, they do that already? Crazy Americans.

So, ranting over and done with, I arrived safely at the river. Met the others in the group and then headed out to fish. I got put onto a nice beat that started with a lovely little weir and pool, although I was reliably informed that no fish were ever caught in the pool for some reason. Bull, red rag springs to mind. Well anyway, I obsessed on that pool (photo below) for an hour with no luck, so I threw on a black woolly bugger (noone was watching!) and stripped it through the pool a few times. After about the 4th or 5th go the fly stopped in it's tracks and I thought I'd caught a snag or something, only to have the rod tip take a sudden dip. The reel gave a momentary squeek as line pulled off only to be silenced as whatever was in that pool broke the leader and left me wishing I'd brought my pike gear. Oh well, back to the grayling...

I worked my way slowly up to the bridge that marked a sort of halfway point catching a small brownie and an even smaller couple of grayling when I noticed that there were a number of fish rising just below the bridge. Most were small little sip rises but there, just off the point of the weed, that looks like a bigger fish. Fly switched to cdc & elk, combat crawling mode turned on and I'm shortly in position. Cast is thrown out, just to have it drag back towards me frustratingly. A 2 minute wait proved that my submarine target was still hungry and a second cast, combined with a little flick just before the fly landed on the water to give some slack resulted in a rainbow of about 1 1/2 lb. I know, it's out of season, but a fish is a fish and from the far bank I couldn't see what was rising, just that it looked bigger than the other tiddlers. The rainbow was slipped quietly back and was feeding again in it's same spot 10 minutes later.

The day progressed with a few more fish, half a bottle of red wine, a steak sandwich from the rusty old bbq and a good number of tall fishy tales.

Heading home was an altogether smugly satisfying trip as I was going in the opposite direction to all the end-of-half-term traffic heading back to London and going past Stonehenge was one of the most amazing sights I've ever seen there. Unfortunately the traffic was too busy to stop for a picture (they don't call that dodgy junction hertz corner for nothing, it's a hire car mortuary...). You'll have to make do with words.

Those of you who know the area know that the henge sits up on a slight hill away from the a303. The fog was just starting to form as I passed and it was rolling, like a river, down the hill in a layer some 3' thick and crossing the road. It was exactly as if it was dry ice, all spooky and dramatic. A real once in a lifetime sight with the stones as a backdrop and the fences covered by the layer of the fog, I was transported back a thousand years or so. Well, apart from the endless stream of traffic heading east that is...

All in all though, just a thoroughly pleasant day :)

~ malcolm

facing away from the view

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-11-03T08:43:26+00:00

I sometimes think I'm the only person that thinks in the odd way that I do. Yes even I think from time to time although I find it a dangerous pastime and avoid it whenever possible. So anyway, a couple of weeks back, I'm standing on a hillside in the Lake District with a group of colleagues. Behind me is wild cat island, the amazon river, beckfoot and holly howe. Magnificent peaks stretch out, orange in the autumn morning light up, up, up all the way to distant kanchenjunga (swallows and amazons for ever!).

The entire group of us however have our backs to the view, we are looking into a cess pit. This has been a pattern I've repeated over the last few weeks, I've visited all manner of fantastic locations with the new job and looked at Grease traps, cess pits, composting toilets, chemical stores, oil tanks, asbestos and falling down buildings. You know what though? I really don't care. My abstract (maybe optimistic?) thinking has me seeing refurbished, environmentally aware buildings and for the most part, I'm not noticing the current smells.

With the end of the trout season passed and days shortened by clock changes my fishing has been curtailed somewhat although tomorrow I'm off to meet a bunch of people by the river and pretend to fish for grayling. In actual fact what we'll be doing is gossiping, drinking tea and having a good laugh. That's what fishing was invented for. An excuse to leave the house and experience peace, tranquility, solitude, company, laughter and friendship - all rolled together.

Oh, and of course, I may have my back to the view, but I couldn't not take the camera along...

~ malcolm

Decaffeinated

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-10-21T16:13:04+01:00

It's a perfect October weekend. The rivers may be closed for trout fishing but a walk along them early in the morning brings a zen like calm to the soul. Mist from the river surface coiling skywards with smokey snake-like fingers, interspersed by faint splashes as tumbling bars of orange and gold are loosed by bankside arboreal guardians. The ground crunches underfoot as our first proper frosts of the year arrive and all seems peaceful.

As the day warms up, the noise of people stirring from their duvets intrudes on the peace of the day and soon the pealing bells of the valleys assorted churches begin. Beckoning the faithful (joyful and triumphant?) to church. Being the open minded guy that I am, I followed the noise of the bells into Salisbury. Straight past St Pauls, past St Marks, past the turning to the Cathedral, straight to the church of coffee where I prayed to the god of Starbucks for a cosy half hour. Tucked up safely with my hot chocolate and my muffin I pretend to read the paper as I watch people scurrying about. It never ceases to amaze me that at 10:00am on a Sunday morning that there is a queue of people desperate for a double espresso AND a latte... Me, I'm decaffeinated these days, unless you count the odd cup of tea that is the only real companion for a fried breakfast. Paper finished and excuses for sitting in my corner running out in my head I decide it's time to make a move and mosey on home.

I'm hoping to head out for a shot at some pike one morning this week, lets hope my fingers remain intact this time. The small jack last week gave me a bit of a slice from it's gill covers as it writhed and leapt to get back to it's murky home. Justification, I guess, for me disturbing it's day.

Anyway, going to move logs, think it might be a lit fire kind of night tonight.

~ malcolm

Dorset

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-10-06T22:22:21+01:00

Now, I've been to allot of different parts of the world. I can't say I'm done seeing new things, don't think that's possible, buuut, there is nothing, and I mean NOTHING to me that can beat the views in West Dorset. Perhaps it's having grown up there, having seen it in hurricane, snow, downpours, beautiful sunshine and pretty much everything in between. Whatever it is, it just can't be rivaled.

Click on the picture below for a bigger version, it'll open in a new window so you may need to hit your back button to come back to this page. I'm making no excuses for the shoddy photomerge on the shot by the way, I know it's shoddy and I'm still putting it up as to my mind the view from White Sheet Hill across to the coast is worth it.

Started the new job and so far it's simply fantastic. Met great people, visited some amazing properties already and within a week feel at home in the job. I never believed people when they said that things happen for a reason, now I'm not so sure. If someone up there wants to see good people go through the crap I've been through in the last 2 years they have a really screwed up sense of humour. As the Depeche Mode song goes, 'I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that god's got a sick sense of humour, and when I die I expect to find him laughing'. That said, if I was by some tortuous route supposed to end up at this place and time I probably wouldn't change a thing. On the whole life is pretty peachy. Nothing finding a yummy 20 something archaeologist with a penchant for balding fly-fishing snowboarding guys wouldn't cure :)

Anyways, it's late, it's been a busy week and I've just got the usual couple of photies for you all. Enjoy

~ malcolm

pikeys!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-09-25T18:20:55+01:00

No, my title doesn't mean the gypsies have moved in, although they have been camped on Hudson's field, hence the Woodford Valley has seen an increase in poaching over the last few weeks. No, in this instance I'm referring to the fact that Pike fishing season started on the 15th September. This and the lovely cold foggy mornings meant that I got a call suggesting a visit to the Avon after the toothy buggers.

With fingers of mist rolling around the Avon I set out in the early morning, accompanied by a lost Kiwi that appears to have adopted the Wiltshire rivers as his second home (hey Mark!).

After so many months of tying size 16-18 flies onto 6x tippet at the maximum and fishing lightly it comes as a real shock to break out the 10# rod and flies that are the size of many of the trout I'd been catching over the summer. That said we had a thoroughly pleasant few hours wading the stretches of the Avon just upstream of Salisbury centre. The technique was wade into the river about a rod's length from the reed beds/snags and cast a good distance downstream/across. Then jerk the fly past the reeds/snags a bit and watch for the sharking takes. I only managed to land a lonely 2-3lb jack pike, but missed a fair few and missed something pretty damn big 3 times in the same spot (I'll be back for you!). Mark had a bit more success with a few different sizes from Jack's up to something I'm guessing was 6-7lb-ish. The photo below is one of the smaller ones, but this one actually deigned to hold still long enough to get a photo, the others refused to participate.

The trout season may not have quite finished yet, but I've had to give the pike another go since Mark's visit. Faired a bit better but still no monsters to report. The winter's looking promising!

Last gasp fishing

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-09-22T09:49:30+01:00

Some of you, if there is indeed any 'you' out there, will notice that I got rid of the first page on the site. I've been looking at what pages people visit and, well, that old home page didn't really do much so it's gone the way of the dodo.

Despite the temperatures being considerably down on the last month now and the tendrils of autumn steadily creeping their way in I've spent a bit of the last week, in between work, fishing. Mostly on the Nadder here in Wilton as it's so close. With yellowing leaves falling like snow around you (although if it was yellow snow falling around you it's time to get indoors) and our fishy friends stocking up ahead of the leaner winter months it really is a splendid time to get out on the water. Much as the middle of the day is the time to fish, from say 11 until 3, it's the morning that is most magical. There's something otherworldly about the light on the river before breakfast, greens are brighter, browns more earthy and subdued. Spiders webs glistening like pearls on gossamer threads and perhaps something that comes from moving with the slow deliberate care of the fisherman combined with the eye of a photographer, nature being less aware of your presence. This morning I saw voles, an otter, a heron and plenty of fish. One of these days I'll invest in a zoom lens so that I can get photos of these morning encounters, until then you'll just have to take my word for it, it's a great way to set you up for the day.

I was flicking through the TV last night, aimlessly looking for something other than a property, cooking or reality TV show when it struck me. Phil and bloody Kirsty have a lot to answer for. Relocation Relocation Relocation my arse. If I see one more show where smug city dwellers who's property values have tripled in 4 years decide they want a city pad and a country home I'm going to go postal and head out with a scalding latte and a toasted panini and smack any of the posh arses I can find. If Phil and Kirsty want a real challenge why don't they try to find a young couple who work in the local market town on a joint salary of around £25k (an arbitrary figure but it's got to be about right for many people) and find them a house in the country? Why not? Because it's bloody impossible, that's why not. Now I've had my argument with people over the years about incomers and the money they bring to the countryside but I'm afraid to say I think that's a big pile of horse poo. Half of these houses become weekend homes, or worse, holiday homes and the fleet of range rovers coming down the M3 loaded up with Waitrose bags from Battersea is testament to how little money these people actually bring to the rural economy.

So, you and your girlfiend/wife work maybe in Plumbase, or in town in Boots, what can you afford to buy in Wiltshire?

Ahhh living the rural Idyl...

that first whiff of autumn

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-09-13T10:15:42+01:00

We've had our first whiff of autumn this week. No, I don't mean that manure being spread on the fields as they give up their golden hues and return to freshly plowed brown, although thinking about it, it really does pong if you drive along Devizes road out of Salisbury at the moment - Poooh, quite literally. What I'm talking about is the single digit morning temperatures, the fog lingering until about 9am, cobwebs glistening in the dew. Even though by 11am it's back being summer again, for those few hours you can picture wooly hats, big jumpers and sunday pub lunches sitting by a roaring fire.

As a snowboarder this time of year is always marked by looking longingly at Burton snowboards catalogue, hushed conversations with friends about how you can get away to the mountains as many times as possible and daydreams of last frontier heli-ski. Maybe it's the drop in temperature, maybe it's the leaves starting to turn, but there is something in the air that makes you begin to prepare for Winter.

Another short update for me today, working too much as I'm in the last two weeks of my old job now. Off to pastures new (well, pretty old actually as I'm joining the National Trust) on the 1st of October. Somewhat daunting after nearly eight and-a-half years at the Building Research Establishment but I'm really starting to get excited now.

Photo's below are from a brief walk along the Nadder at Wilton this morning.

~ malcolm

dog days and salad nights

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-09-04T08:45:05+01:00

Next year I really must remember to forget about fishing mayfly time. I always get excited in late May, but invariably it seems, the weather turns and duffers fortnight trickles into a fickle fishing, cold, soggy early summer instead. Late summer though. Ahhh, to my mind it's always the best fishing of the year. Particularly on the Nadder. The water is running crystal clear, there's a good flow this year (although still down on the LTA - see rainfall and flow info), the weed is gently wafting in the current and the weather has been really good for a couple of weeks. I've gotten a fair bit of fishing in over the last few weeks, in fact I spent an hour or two the other day lying in the vegetation on the river bank, letting a pool rest as it had just been fished, just watching the world and letting it all sink in; The cows munching in the field, the kingfishers swooping past, swallows (or swifts, I'm no twitcher I'm afraid) wheeling overhead like some avian battle of Britain display, the light catching the flies as they buzz the waters surface casting reflections like natures own disco ball. It all seeps into your conscious, replacing what we mistakenly think of as the real world; Mortgages, jobs, relationships, smashed wingmirrors (bloody yobs!).

I'm by no way obsessed with the subject of time although I do seem to think and write about it more than occasionally. I read an article on BBC News the other day, OK, quite a few days ago now, but it's remained in my thoughts. (here) There's allot of self help, management mumbojumbo that I really don't agree with, some that shows a huge ignorance of Einstein's work but inside all that is a real nugget of an idea that fishermen, I think will really get. We've all noticed that time on the riverbank disappears in a flash. What you think of as a quick hour spent fishing is all too often actually four hours in 'real' time. Holidays as a child were full of discovery and experience, focussing on seeing and doing, much as when fishing you are focussed on the environment;

What are the fish doing? What sort of fish is that? What sort of fly is that coming off? What's the weather doing? How far away is that line eating tree behind me? Can I get this piece of fur and feathers 15m upstream, under a bush without snagging on the branch or spooking the lovely brownie you spotted sitting in the shadows?

Your mind is full of the world, you are observing the minutiae of life. No longer thinking about all those mundane 'real world' issues. If you follow the theory you are slowing time by being more aware of everything in your surroundings.

So what else has been happening here apart from my meandering thoughts about the nature of time? Well, it's been a good summer for me and Joe. Lot's of play, lot's of outdoors, lot's of scrapes and bruises (but isn't that what little boys are supposed to do?). A couple photo's can replace a few more thousand words of waffle from me, so here goes!

Incidentally, I snapped my favorite little 6' Orvis rod the other day. A quick phone call to the nice chaps at Orvis in Andover, 20 minutes in the car and I had a nice shiney replacement. Although they don't make the 6' one anymore I just wanted to use these few words to say thank you. Great customer service as always. ~ Malcolm

order from chaos

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-08-12T09:06:35+01:00

The countryside around here, up until a couple of weeks ago was looking decidedly ruffled. Corn fields were slightly beaten by wind and rain and it really did look like crops were going to rot if they stayed wet any longer. Two weeks of good weather however has changed the face of the fields. Contractors working through the night, a constant rumble of large machinery towing grain trailers around, combine harvesters slowing down traffic, dust streaming off fields; it's all meant that in record time the fields have been tamed.

Man's stamp has firmly, once again, been put on nature. Parallel lines of cut fields give way to towers of straw bales or the somewhat haphazard arrangement of round bales. It doesn't feel like it'll be long this year until the smell of earth and the noise of gulls will signify that ploughing has begun.

I took off for a couple days and went up to North Devon over the weekend. Got in the sea at 6am, surfed until 9 or so, avoiding the ravenous hordes. Then spent the rest of the day on Crow Point fishing for Bass as the tides allowed. Caught several small bass, some wrasse from the rocks on baggy point and a pollack, but what is it with sea fish? I mean, they either have armour plating, spikes, razor sharp gill covers, or... all three! I'll stick to my nice safe trout and grayling I think...

the amusing thing is, and I haven't surfed for a few years so was out of shape a bit (I think I've been hanging round with tubby fly-fishers too long), that some things never change. Surfers are either bloody minded or eternally optimistic, who else would paddle out and then sit for 30 minutes waiting for a wave that just may come? Oh, actually that reminds me of fishing a bit, oh...

aiightt

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-07-24T20:34:38+01:00

I got sent a link to a new online fishy magazine the other day. Expecting nothing more than another boooring publication I was really pleasantly suprised by turning up to www.thisisfly.com

Cracking stories, lovely modern layout. Reminded me of the days I spent trawling through transworld skateboarding/snowboarding and thrasher magazine not that many years ago (although it feels like a lifetime...)

It set me to thinking though, my fishing just isn't 'street' enough.

I've been trying to think of ways of upping the bling of the nadder but I'm struggling. I tried hollering 'izzle mo shizzle' at the top of my voice when I hooked a 8" dace but the sheep a field away seemed really unimpressed. I tried making gang signs but it's hard to retrieve line when your fingers are doing hand twister. I've tried baseball caps; back to front, inside out, sideways, nothing... I tried some phat necklaces but they just get caught on my lanyard and tangled in my net and gink isn't reccomended as a silver cleaner anyway.

I've been thinking about helping the nadder look more urban, a shopping trolley or two, some black bin bags you know, something a bit 'cooler' than this rural idyl i'm forced to endure day after day. I'm thinking of spraying tags on some of the sheep or maybe cutting the vegetation less so it's a bit more like a dark alley instead of a country lane.

Try as I might, I just can't make fishing these waters 'extreme' or 'gnarly'. It seems in this day and age, exploration, adventure and that overused much maligned 'xtreme' word are all that matters. Despite the fact that 99% of people will only ever experience a nice safe packaged version of those worlds safe in the knowledge that their guide or tour operator is bound to have sorted out the little details for them. So, sorry to dissapoint, I've come to the conclusion that although I still skateboard, snowboard and otherwise live life to the 'pepsi-max' my chalkstreams are not extreme. They're by turns relaxing, theraputic, beautiful, calming, terribly unashameably British, enlightening, often frustrating; Just not extreme.

Trouble is the 'street' is somewhat ingrained after so many years eating tarmac so the next time your fishing the chalkstream and you hear someone shout BOOYAHH it's probably me, sorry. I apologise in advance.

wet wet wet

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-07-05T10:47:17+01:00

No, the title isn't an obscure reference to 'wishing I was lucky'. I'm talking about the weather (as us Brits love to do). Over the last few weeks the UK has gotten a bit of rain, you know, nothing biblical (unless you live north of the watford gap), but putting it in my bestest understated manner, it's been a tad damp. The Nadder is up, it's up and over the bank in parts of Wilton. It's darker brown than Green & Blacks organic chocolate ice-cream (yummmm by the way) and as I stood by Bullbridge watching the river sort of flow like a landslip underneath I saw the white sticky uppy legs of a dead sheep bob past. As you can probably guess, it's not fishing terribly well at the moment.

Somewhere on the headwaters of the Wylye however...

Funny how a 'true' chalkstream can weather changes much better than areas affected by runoff. I know the Nadder is actually a spate river, but even lower down the Wylye and on the main stem of the Avon they are coloured after the recent rains. I think it really does show the effect that runoff from houses, concrete, drains, ploughed fields etc really has on our rivers. Google sustainable urban drainage and see how more appropriate management of runoff could improve things (I haven't checked what you get if you do google it, so if you get some crazy russian porn site don't blame me...).

The afternoon spent on the headwaters of the Wylye was magical for many reasons. It was a beautiful spot, the river was completely wild and untamed, it was stuffed full of nice 1lbish wild broonies and although it was very tough to fish and I didn't connect to a single fish I felt very happy to just be there. In fact I felt very happy to just be, something that the riverbank really encourages I think.

Crawling through the watercress to cast to a likely spot where I could see fish rising I was delighted to find a moorhen nest, even more delighted to hear a chirp-chirp and see the first tap-tap-tap as a chick poked it's beak out into the big wide world for the first time. Life, never ceases to amaze me, sometimes words can't convey an experience fully.

And one last thing, I had 55000 hits last month on the site, something like 6000 individual visitors. Really quite amazing for me, although hard to get my head around sometimes. You'd think with that many visitors to the site that someone from Orvis, Simms, Hardy/Greys may have said 'hey, Malcolm. Could we put an ad on your site?'. I might say no, I might say yes. Who knows. What I do know is that I need new wading boots, terrible what happened to this pair of Wychwood ones, after only one seasons wear...

No need to carp on about it!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-06-21T19:38:22+01:00

I've just finished reading 'how to fish' by Chris Yates. A thoroughly enjoyable read, in quite a large way it was re-runs of a passion for angling, the BBC2 series featuring him that inspired me to write and photograph my piscatorial adventures. If you by some miracle ever read this blog/diary/call-it-what-you-will Chris, thanks for all the fish. This one's for you.

Anyway, he puts coarse angling into a whole new, stalky, wild, mobile manner and he describes the river and it's environs in such a way that no outdoorsy person could fail to be motivated and transported from armchair to river bank within 2 chapters. I agree wholeheartedly with his derision for stillwater trout fishing, I just personally don't enjoy it and I was honoured to read that "...proper trout fishing with a fly rod on a small wild river is a worthwhile occupation...". There, I'm doing something worthwhile! My mum must be so proud ;)

So, I'm all fired up to go and try this coarse fishing lark so I load the car, I trundle down towards the new forest and I get my gear out at a small little nicely tree lined pond.

I have a cheapo float rod but feeling rather silly I decided to use my 9' fly rod instead as the carp were quite happily sunning themselves, mooching round the pond without a care in the world. The occasional SLUUURRP as they sucked in some tasty morsel sounded hugely loud in such a quiet tranquil setting, mingling with birdsong, trees rustling their deep green coats and the occasional clip-clop as horse and human cargo passed by on the nearby track.

I'd heard horror stories about how tricksy carp are to catch so I was all prepared to be frustrated and as a trout angler, you know, a worthwhile one on a wild river ;) I'd have been happy to connect to a single fish. Welllll, it didn't quite work out that way. I put a small bit of breadcrust on the hook and just lobbed it out about 10' under the branches shown above. SLUUURRP was followed very rapidly by an explosion of water and leaves and a reel that was screaming like it was about to fall apart. With the rod bent, quite litterally double, I brought my new fishy friend out from under the bush where he/she then began to swim in deep slow circles getting smaller and slower and finally, with a lavish last run, into the net. I must just mention the ludicrously large net, after years of a trout net slung on my back this felt like wielding a trampoline cover or hot air balloon on sticks. So anyway, carp returned safely I repeated the process and after a couple of calm minutes, SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM, off again. Now there are quite a few shots so I'll keep them small-ish.

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

SLUUURRP, CRASH, SCREEEAM

Now I didn't take photo's of every fish as I like to get them back into the water as quickly as possible, but I stopped counting at about 15 or so. Think I had around 25 fish between 6pm and 8:30, all from the same area of the pond, all on breadcrust on the surface. I know these aren't exactly 40lb'ers or nice old wild fish but honestly, I thought it was supposed to be hard? maybe I was lucky this day? I do know one thing though, I have a bruise on my ribs tonight where I had to hold the rod against me for leverage, they really do scrap on a lighter rod. For scale reference, the net is a 28" one.

Was I fly fishing for coarse fish? Nah, I think I was coarse fishing, I just happened to have a fly rod in my hand, I wasn't using any natural imitation, I wasn't even casting, just plopping bread out under a tree. Was it fun? It was sort of, after about 10 fish I began to wonder where the challenge was, I kept going to see just how big these great slabs actually got. Would I do it again? Hmmm, I think I need to find some small wild ponds and have a shot there, fishing where the fish are so concentrated (see below) seemed to smack too much of trout fishing a dayticket stillwater to me.

There's only one other thing about my first experience of coarse fishing that I want to share, and I'm racking my rather frazzled brains to find a way that I can say it without sounding class-ist and tarring all coarse anglers with the same brush. In my two-and-a-half hours at the lake I recovered around 6m of nylon line, including 2m from a branch in the car park (how they could tangle in a car park and not retrieve it is beyond me). I collected about 10 empty beer cans, 2 glass bottles and to my mind worse of all, I removed several hooks from foul hooked fish.

I know it can't be helped sometimes to be broken off on a fish but bearing in mind I was only there a short time and saw this sort of thing several times something says things aren't quite right in the tackle or methods people are using. I didn't lose a single hook in the time I was fishing, how come so many other people not only managed to lose hooks, but managed to lose them in the flanks of fish?

Sunny June

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-06-13T21:01:55+01:00

Had a couple days off work to take a visitor from sunnier climes fishing on the local waters. Had a great time, always nice to meet new people that you share an interest with.

A morning start in the Woodford valley drifted lazily into an afternoon on the Nadder, nothing terribly exciting to report apart from a good mayfly hatch on the Nadder this evening, just before the rain arrived.

Some of you are stuck in offices in small boxes watching nothing more than a computer screen and a telephone so I thought I'd just rub salt into them there wounds and post some piccies of just how purrrdy the rivers are looking at the moment. Sorry!

hehe ok, no I'm not. I'll be sat on the M25 in traffic tomorrow so I feel justified in gloating on the last couple of days fresh air.

I love my bank!

malcolm@nadder-diary.net — 2007-06-08T21:41:26+01:00

They caved in and refunded 6 years of bank charges! :)

As a result I bought a few new lenses for the camera, for those who know, I got a canon 50mm f1.4 prime, 85mm f1.8 prime AND a 17-40mm f4, phewww. All I can say is WOW, what a difference good lenses make.

Nothing more than an excuse to gush about my new lens really...