BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
Not long ago, dining in a Pimlico bistro, I was asked—by a ballet dancer, of all people—why I ‘waste’ so much time fly fishing.
My answer went something along these lines:
That when I stand on the riverbank, the sun rising over the horizon, I feel a calmness that is hard to articulate. The light glimmers on the surface, and in that moment, I experience a joy that seems almost out of place in modern life.
Fly fishing is not merely a sport; it is an enduring addiction that has taken root in my being, I explained, drawing me into a world where tranquillity meets exhilaration.
Unlike the short-lived comforts of cigars or whisky, or the distractions of fleeting romantic affairs, fly fishing provides something of lasting value—a way to nourish the spirit and plunder time to think. To stand at the water’s edge, or to get into the river itself, is to confront the dual nature of existence: the thrill of the chase and the acceptance of what lies beyond our control.
The first time I held a fly rod, as a boy beside a gushing river in Wales, I was struck by the beauty of the casting motion. Each cast presented a fresh opportunity to connect with the water and the creatures that inhabit it. The more I immersed myself, the more I realised this wasn’t just about catching fish. It was about experiencing the wilderness, the changing seasons, and the shifts in weather. It was about finding my place in nature and owning human superiority while being reminded by Mother Nature, more often than not, of the obligation for humility.
The tactile nature of fly fishing is deeply engaging, especially when I hold my beloved Hardy rod. The moment my hand grips its smooth cork handle, I connect with tradition. There are even days when I sense the spirits of anglers from the past watching over me. The weight of my rod feels just right; the balance aligns with my movements. As I release the line, the whoosh reverberates through the air—a sound that is both thrilling and gratifying. The line arcs gracefully before settling on the water’s surface with a soft plop, sending out ripples that, on good days, seem to call the fish, while on others, cause them to scarper. My rod feels part of me as if I have metamorphosed into Mr Tickle.
The sensation of the line gliding through my fingers as I retrieve it, coupled with the rising tension when a fish strikes, creates an electric moment. Each sudden tug makes my heart race, filling me with adrenaline as I engage.
It is these moments, filled with tension and anticipation, that draw me back to the river again and again, much like a drinker returning to the pub for a chaser. I find myself craving the next sensation, the next catch, and the next escape into the wild.
This pursuit is limitless, encompassing not only the act of fishing but also a broader understanding of life itself, serving as a constant reminder of the beauty we often neglect in our busy lives. I prefer to partake in this passion in daylight, taking comfort in the routine of going to bed early and waking with the sun—far removed from the hollow pleasures of urban nightlife, which had its time but is now well downstream for me.
There is also a therapeutic quality to fly fishing. It serves as a form of meditation, where the sounds of flowing water, birds singing, and dragonflies buzzing soothe away the stress and nonsense of daily life. While I appreciate the company of friends—sharing the river with fellow anglers creates bonds that run deeper than those tethered by more ephemeral addictions—there is profound pleasure in human solitude, fishing time often shared only with my dogs and water life.
With each cast, I feel tension release, replaced by a serenity that lasts long after I have left the riverbank.
This rendezvous with Nature revitalises my spirit, starkly contrasting with the fatigue and distress that often accompany other indulgences. Yes, there are days when I long for the rugby field, but I know those days are long behind me, as lifeless as the old bones I’ve exchanged for shiny titanium, and that field now belongs to my son not me.
Fly fishing enriches my life, providing joy, connection, and a sense of purpose. With each gallivant to the river, I find not just a hobby but a lifelong passion—one that nurtures my soul far beyond the fleeting highs of other vices. The river, like life, flows unpredictably; in learning to navigate its currents, we discover not just the fish, but our thoughts and ourselves.
Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire Magazine and the author of Dear Townies and Arcadia among other books including ‘Conservatism’ and ‘Truth’ which publish later this month.
“If you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by.”
― Sun Tzu