Females encouraged to join the big fish

Four million people go fishing every year, but only 2% are women. Is it rubbish, or are men onto something?

The Environment Agency has launched a campaign to get women fishing. It is, according to the agency, a wonderful countryside pursuit, but of the four million people who pursue it each year, only 2% are women. The agency is hoping to encourage us to charge into what is — along with tossing the caber and a couple of stuffy clubs on Pall Mall — one of this country’s last woman-free bastions.

I suspect many women reading this are thinking that, as male bastions go, this is one they can keep — that there are better ways of spending a weekend than sitting by a river. But four million men and a government agency can’t be wrong, can they?

I decided to find out, and began by googling “Learn to fish”. A rather inviting operation in the Scottish Highlands popped up, so I e-mailed them, explaining that I was a beginner, that I was a woman, that I had a couple of days free and that I’d like to get to grips with fishing.

The response came with a cyberspace snort of derision: “It would take a good deal more than one or two days to bring you anything like up to speed. Change tack. Try stamp-collecting.”

You’re not going to put me off that easily, buster. Next on the list was Sporting Choice, in Stockbridge, Hampshire, and it seemed far more amenable. No snorts of derision. No stamp-collecting. “We welcome beginners, and especially women,” said a friendly chap on the phone. There and then, I booked myself and a cajoled female friend for a day’s tuition the following week.

By a beautiful lake, one crisp February morning, Nat and I met our instructors, Andy and Tom, over a whisky-laced cup of coffee. So far, so terribly civilised — there was even a toilet. The other surprise was how little preamble there was. I’d expected hours of preparation and piles of nerdy paraphernalia — maggots, worms, umbrellas, plastic sheeting, brown boxes — but, with a minimum of faff, I was given a rod and a net.

“That it?”

“That’s it.” And we were off.

For the benefit of the girlies, I’ll explain the basics of fishing. There are two main types. There’s your coarse fishing — where you dangle a worm in the water and hope that a fish will swim past and take a bite. Yawn. Or there’s your more exciting fly-fishing — where you drag the fly across the water, luring the fish the way you lure a cat with a piece of string. Except you don’t bash the cat on the head at the end. As Tom explained, a fly-fisherman’s (or fisherwoman’s) brain is constantly at work and normally in a state of controlled impatience. It is not the “sit in a puddle all day looking morose” school of angling.

And that’s all you need to know. Except that rivers are not for beginners, and lakes are. Which explains why we were by this pretty lake with lovely hilly views, rather than having a go on the River Test itself.

YOU DON’T expect to get excited about flies, but when Andy got his out, Nat and I were transfixed. The colourful, shiny, feathered works of art had names like Daddy Long Legs, Black Gnat, Pheasant Tail and Sherry Spinner, and they were beautiful. I would bite one if I were a fish.

We started off with a Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear, and I practised casting. It’s all about the flick. Back and forth, back and forth, like a lasso, letting a little more out each time. The key is moving gracefully, with as little force as possible, and you can’t help thinking that this sport was really better suited to women all along.

Then we began fishing proper. And it was immediately far more exciting than I’d ever imagined it could be. The competition to see who would catch the first fish was fierce, although neither of us realistically expected to catch anything at all. Then, after a mere 26 minutes, Nat had a nibble. Then more than a nibble: a bite.

Before I knew it, she was whooping and squealing, as out popped a beautiful silver rainbow trout. All I could do was smile weakly as Andy suggested a change of tack. We ditched the GRHE and got out our special weapon, an Orange Woolly Bugger. Sure enough, this garish punk rocker of the fly world did the trick. I got my first bite.

“What do I do now?” I cried. I could see its flicking tail and its fanning gills — it was a big one. Maybe a foot long. Maybe two. But just as Andy was explaining how to reel it in, my line snapped and the lucky so-and-so got away, taking our only Orange Woolly Bugger with it. For the rest of the morning, no other fly caught the glance of a fish. Nat and Tom, however, had stacks of lures and stacks of success.

There’s nothing like a bit of fresh air and frustration to work up an appetite. After a boozy pub lunch and a chat with the landlady, who’d been fishing since she was a toddler, I cast my line again, armed with top tips. I tried a different part of the lake; I tried pulling the fly faster; I spotted a fish feeding and cast in its direction. But nothing worked. In the spirit of good sportswomanship, Nat let me reel in a couple of her catches.

You’d have to cut off my right arm before I’d inflict unnecessary cruelty on another living thing. But to be squeamish about catching and killing a fish doesn’t make sense unless you’re a committed vegetarian, which I am not. So I knelt on the grassy bank and bashed my Nemo over the head with the “priest”. In an instant, dinner was sorted. So much more satisfying than buying a farmed fish from Sainsbury’s.

So, have women been missing out on the whole fishing thing? Certainly. I loved my day on the lake so much that I’m going back this summer with a group of friends (strictly female; boys would spoil it), some wine and a barbecue. And I’ll be damned if I don’t catch something.

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