Always indebted, always inspired
Richard was a genuine free-spirit.
A vet by trade and a bohemian by nature, he entered my life at the age of ten.
Two years later he was my stepfather.
Three years later he had a fly rod in my hand.
So, it’s thanks to this animal loving, madcap, maverick that I came to appreciate and enjoy this noblest of sports.
Always on the breadline, fractionally ahead of the bailiffs, Richard managed to pull off a roguish glamour. He lived for his annual fishing expeditions to New Zealand and British Columbia.
Rascal that he was, I daresay he had a girl in every port, but he most certainly kept a Harley-Davidson in both countries. Untaxed and uninsured, he’d roar off in to the wilderness with his rucksack, tent, Hardy Smuggler and assorted clobber.
Weeks later, he’d return misty-eyed with stories of his exploits. Sadly, I don’t recall the rivers or exact locations, but I do remember tales of being dropped into deep, deep BC by helicopter before floating off down some torrent of a river in an inflated inner tube hunting down the mighty Steelhead.
And I’m sure memory serves me right when I proudly tell you that he was once cover boy for Trout and Salmon, writing up his Canadian adventures.
We lived in mid-Wales at the time, and I cut my teeth – with limited success, I hasten to add – on the Usk and the Wye.
The local publican in Hay-On-Wye owned a stretch of the river and recognising the glint in our eyes, was happy to slip us a half-day or two.
Richard died last year.
Seventy-something, he was in the back and beyond of California at the time, exploring and fishing. He’d substituted two wheels for four, but true to form he was on a solo mission with camera, rod, and bags of exuberance.
So this post is really to acknowledge those who instilled this passion in us, who patiently nurtured and guided us, and to whom we are all eternally grateful.
You’ll all have your own Richards, but to my very own: I salute you, sir.

Richard holding a BC Steelhead
Until next time,
Will











Nice one
I sadly lost my Dad when I was eleven. My mother had subsequent boy friends none of them upto Dad’s scratch-he was once in the local pub enjoying a well deserved lockin .”turn that bloody light out- you’ll have the cops on us he trilled to his fellow pokerites, a calm Yorkshire shepherd replied -”That ‘ll be t’ sun Dales” Any road one of Mum’s bounders took me to some over stocked stew pond and left me to tangle myself in a million knots as he bored Mum with the latest sales figures of Bodgit and Legit.
Salvation wasn’t far away- my Grand father Monty watts moved in with us -oh joy-Hardy kit, Church’s brogues a pandoras box of stories-heaven. Luckily for me he took me to the river -taught me to fish-but most of all taught me to love the river the company of other fishermen. Tight lines screeming reels and happy lockins -Charlie
Thats asemowe! I Thats asemowe! I live so close to this place but i have never fished there. I have to get in there for sure, I’m just wondering if mid july is a good time on the lower humber. I’ve caught a few salmon before but nothing compared to some of those monsters
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