After euro nymphing in Switzerland, Peter Coetzee goes north, fly fishing for barbel in Belgium.
The drive from Luxembourg to Aywaille was, well, rainy. It was a Sunday, and the route took me right past Spa Francorchamps, which happened to be hosting the Grand Prix that day. Some poor planning on my part on what could have been a day of motorsport and barbel fishing. I made one stop as I passed the Grand Prix circuit, the famous air strip that has been the tragic point of last departure for many drivers over the years, which is also home to some retired Belgian Airforce jets.
A quick walk around the jets received a bit of unwanted attention from the VIP security (I assume waiting for guests and drivers), and I quickly hopped back in the rental and continued back on my journey. The last hour was me trying to imagine what I’d find in the town. I had kind of worked out where to get a fishing licence the evening before, and so was mostly nervous about whether or not the tourist office would be open, and whether or not I’d be able to sneak in an afternoon session.
You descend through a pine forest into Aywaille, a beautiful old village greets you first, which is home to some water wheels, and said tourist office. European bureaucracy scares me at the best of times, and this was no different. The lady running the office was incredibly friendly, but I had quite a few hoops to jump through. Hoop 1 was an incredibly non-user-friendly fishing licence website (this seems to be the norm in Europe).
I eventually hacked a away around the broken form submissions and finally got the QR code the tourist office clerk was after. She scanned this, and uploaded it to another website, which preceded a paper form which allowed me to access this specific body of water. The assumption was that I was here to fish the skinny trout water in the mountains. I was of course not, but jumped through the remaining hoops thinking I’d be better off just having permission for everything and not getting myself in trouble.
In truth, the good barbel water was actually slap bang in the commercial and industrial districts. As a South African, this is bizarre to comprehend, as our water management would generally mean a city river would be filled with effluent and industrial pollution. Not here, crystal clear water winds its way through Aywaille, with very little in the way of litter or pollution anywhere.
I was now a licenced Belgian angler, but one with limited sunlight hours. And so I retreated to my accommodation. A new hotel that sits like a scar on the flank of one of the agricultural hills overlooking the village. It continued to drizzle the remainder of the evening. Which filled me with sight fishing anxiety.
I soon discovered my beautiful modern hotel did not provide catering or room service. Convenient. The google machine helped me find a pizzeria, who, amusingly, only spoke Italian. I fumbled my way through a Margherita and “meat” order. And collected a phenomenal pizza. I spent the night tying little nymphs and loading my gluten-intolerant body with poison before calling it a night. Tomorrow I needed to find some barbel.
Breakfast was a pear and a yoghurt from a convenience shop, which I consumed while scouring one of many Belgian YouTube bait fishing videos. I screengrabbed away and decided the only mission for this morning was to find the spots in the videos. It’s a tiny town, and within the first hour I’d managed to work out exactly where the videos had been shot.
The most convenient of the spots was on a kind of tourist walkway right next to a strip mall. I stood on a wall as vantage point and replied to Gerald, who was enquiring on how my now multi-country barbel hunt was going. As I was about to reply I spotted a flash, and amazingly, in front of me saw two fish working the bottom of the river. I quickly snapped a pic and sent it off to Gerald, before running back to my car (now reversed right up to the river) to rig up.
I donned my wetsuit pants (now without Jeff’s waders) and slid down the embankment as gracefully as possible to the fish below. These fish were obviously feeding quite aggressively, and I was optimistic for an eat early on.
An hour later and I was still presenting to the same feeling fish, with a top pocket now full of nymphs that didn’t do the trick. I decided to take a break on the bank, and it amazed me how little attention anyone paid. I guess indicative of this (fishing) not being that unpopular.
The break was interrupted by drizzle, and, with condition longevity concerns I returned to my post, now in the rain. I’d seen a reaction to my Vaal go-to. A champagne bead headed olive Perdigon that I guess would imitate any small mayfly nymph well. Suspecting this was to the bead, I began cycling through nymphs with similar colours.
The advantage you have with barbel, is as long as you don’t pull a leader across them or land it on their head, they don’t seem to really mind the little treats whizzing past their head, so spooks are minimal. They will reposition, but seemingly organically out of feeding rhythm. I’d now followed a single fish to the tail of the small pool I was in, clarity decreasing by the minute.
The fished dropped into a lie behind a dark rock. I could see him with the right movement, but exact reaction became a challenge. A few drifts later through the hole and I noticed a flash and lifted on instinct. I was on. The initial part of the fight can be quite confusing. Just weight. Then the fish will start moving and reacting. This one immediately making a turn downstream. They are very strong animals, and lifting them high in the column seems to be more about them allowing it than you forcing it. A few tense moments around sharp rocks and I had it subdued and close enough for the netting sequence. In the net I immediately inspected the fly location. Properly in the mouth. Mission accomplished.
All in all, I’d spent almost 4 hours nymphing to the same pod of fish. I guess one would eat eventually. Being the easily pleased angler I am, I decided to spend the rest of the day reccying spots. It would turn out to be a terrible mistake. I found some phenomenal water, and focused on access. You’re navigating private land, large civil structures, and then looking for good pools. I found some incredible water on the two rivers that braid through Aywaille on their way to Liege. Even finding two wels spin fisherman working a deep bank below a railway bridge. I retired that night and woke to a torrent of chocolate water. The window had closed.
