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Slovenian Report:: See Slovenia photos in our Gallery >> So there I am in the freezing cold river, a moon rising over the mountains opposite, mists coming off the water, wild boar rummaging amongst the dead foliage and a sure knowledge that there are monsters out there in front of me. Hucho hucho. Huchen. Danubian salmon. We saw them earlier in the crystal clear water when the sunlight painted them large as crocodiles. Ferocious. Threatening. Way too large for the comparatively tiny stream they inhabit. It’s the last of our three fishing days and whilst so much of me is focusing on this desperate, last throw of the dice, a part of me can’t help but wander back, reliving the experiences. Slovenia is a stunning destination. So close to Stansted, such obliging people, such wonderful landscape and such extraordinary fishing. Rok has been our guide and his knowledge and experience are extraordinary. So are his photographs. Stunningly-conditioned wild rainbow trout. Big, big browns. Marble trout that reach over a metre in length and twenty-plus pounds in weight. Grayling way in excess of three and a half pounds. And, the huchen – no, let’s call them Danubian salmon because that’s how they’re known here in Slovenia.
We were lucky to even get a sniff of the salmon, we knew that. For years, there’ve been so many regulations and so many problems that, for a foreigner, tickets have been almost impossible to come by and, indeed, without the help of half a dozen friends here in Slovenia, it would have been impossible for us, too, to gain permission. The salmon live in the rivers that eventually feed into the Black Sea and as you’d hope, they are highly protected. These fish – that can grow to fifty pounds or more – are head of the food chain, the undisputed masters and make these crystal clear, Slovenian rivers virtually unique. You could say we didn’t actually catch much: I had a nase – a silver fish rather like an extremely large dace – but Tim did actually beach one small salmon of around five or six pounds in weight. We’d have a photograph if it hadn’t squirmed out of Roq’s hands and disappeared back into the river. But you don’t assess a trip like this purely on numbers of fish caught. In fact, it was one of the steepest learning curves I personally have ever been on even though I have fished in well over fifty countries. The first few days were spent fishing – wild, dramatic waters. The third day, the best, was spent fly fishing, sight fishing for fish you could almost reach out and touch. Of course, we couldn’t be expected to get it right all at once but even given the level of our amateurism, we still managed a couple of pulls and an offer that was missed. Above all, we had fishing that made our hearts race, fishing that clamours for us to return. It’s too cold to fish on. We assemble by the cars and Marian, our patient driver, pours us each a welcoming, steaming, dizzying glass of Glouvine. We chat under the stars, listening to the river as our breaths cloud the air. Then it’s back to Clive and Myrna’s for yet another feast. Then it’s to bed, listening to the river Sava crashing through the night, literally outside our windows. To sleep. To dream. To return. You bet. John Bailey, December 2006. |
