Mr Goldhead And The Grayling

Lawrence Catlow fishes the rapidly recovering River Irfon in Powys.

- Lawrence Catlow

THE VALLEY OF the upper Irfon winds its way between steep-sided hills, some of them thickly cloaked in dark conifers, others bare-headed, dotted with the high and distant shapes of sheep moving almost imperceptibly along the slopes above the open oak woods below. It is a deep as well as a sinuous valley, which makes it seem a half secret and secluded place. It is green as well as deep, green and lush, with the different and complementary greens of the grass and bracken on the unwooded slopes, of the tall conifers and the round-topped oaks. Buzzards, kites and ravens float and call in the sky. It is all very atmospheric, all very beautiful and the river that twists and turns along the green floor of the valley is every bit as beautiful as its surroundings. It flows in the shade of alders, birches and willows, and the peat stain, which persists even in low water, shines with just a touch of gold. There are deep pools and long, streamy runs beneath the trees, there are cascading falls, there are narrow channels where the river runs smooth and dark between confining slabs of grey rock. It is all very beautiful, and yet the Irfon has not always been just as full of life, of food for fish and fish for fishers, as its own and its valley’s beauty might suggest. About 50 years ago the head of the catchment was smothered with mile upon mile of forestry, which, predictably enough, has tried its best over the years to poison the river with the invisible pollution of acid rain. I have been told that the Irfon almost died.