Years of writing as a sporting journalist for titles like the Sporting Gun have left Ian Mason more open-minded and intrepid than most, and he accepted the invitation to cross the channel for an entente cordial with alacrity. After a comfortable night on the ferry, we awoke in France and made the two hour drive from the ferry port to Le Crotoy inland from the Bay of Somme. Famed for its duck shooting from hutte, this area is littered with flight ponds and wetlands and thousands of hutte to accommodate the nightly influx of guns from September to sometime in late January or early February.

In France, there is no law preventing the use of live decoys, so each pond has a holding pen for pricey ducks and geese (up to 200 euros a brace for geese). These decoys are taken out onto floating stands where they are fixed for the evening, able to hop in and out of the water at their leisure. The live decoys are laid out in straight lines so they don’t become targets as dusk descends.The logic for this arrangement becomes apparent when it is explained that while the evening flight is undertaken in much the same way as it is in Britain, the main event involves a shotgun with a telescopic sight mounted on it and the ducks that have settled onto the water between the lines of decoys.

Through the pillbox-like window of the hutte, we squinted out at indistinct shapes bobbing on the water. While it undoubtedly challenged our perceptions of a sporting shot, firing at a bobbing target in the dark through a small slit when only just awake is much harder than it sounds. Our bag was 6, one shot British-style at dusk and the balance in the French manner. While definitely not a sporting destination in its own right, when combined with wild grey partridge and/or walked-up snipe, the adventure becomes worth crossing the Channel for.

For more details or to book your trip contact us at info@outsidedays.com

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So the request to find not just driven shooting in Ireland, but high pheasants within partying distance of Dublin, seemed staid and predictable…at first glance. As it turns out, much of the shooting in Ireland is let out to sporting clubs, taking the form of rough or walked up shooting. It’s easier to find a pebble dash replica of a hacienda or the Taj Mahal than a good shoot producing reliably high birds. Fortunately, years of networking pay off when it comes to shaking the tree for venues, and I knew exactly who to track down for the inside scoop.

Years of selling sport has turned me into a nail-biting skeptic when it comes to new shoots…hence my instance on seeing everything I sell and using my team of guinea pigs to try before YOU buy. So the well-worn Irish homily, ‘Not a problem! It will be grand,’ is enough to give me sleepless nights. Fortunately, my spies had outdone themselves with a stunning shoot in the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. A father and son team with a reputation for excellence that precedes them across the Irish Sea, Fiach and Ciaran show the finest Irish birds to their countrymen and foreigners alike seven days a week during the season.

One of the guns (who’s honour and job I’ll protect by leaving his name out of it), declared the second drive of the day the best drive he’d shot on in years…high praise from someone who has already shot 50 days this year on some of the best-known shoots in England. Shooting on a Sunday has great advantages when it comes to getting the most of your season and organising a busy team. With a little clever planning it is possible to leave the UK on a Friday evening, shoot two stunning days and be back at your desk on Monday morning. Add to that the legendary hospitality available, from the lure of Temple Bar to the soothing ministrations of the spa at the hotel, we can tailor a package of sport and fun to suit. I’ve already taken the first Irish bookings of 2012, so get craicing.

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The glorious 12th came racing up on me like a steam train, leaving disarray in its wake as I tackled Yorkshire, Croatia, the 19th century and the Sussex downs in rapid succession. While the rest of the country basked in an Indian summer, I sweltered in tweeds and froze in moleskins depending on the whim of Mother Nature. I pack sunscreen and short sleeves for Croatia, but the indignity of combining suncream with tweed has me questioning the apparent realignment of the seasons. Except for the not-so-glorious fog that accompanied the guns on August 12th and 13th of course.

The first of our annual brace of black powder days went off with a bang as the team attempted their first partridge. Mini-driven days are always more about the laugh, fancy dress and the giving of stick, bag is immaterial to this team…especially when we never seem to reach it. At 60 seconds plus to reload both barrels, I spend more time on the radio holding the line and my belly than anything else. Having taken up the invitation to fire a flintlock in anger at quarry, I am amazed the team hit anything at all: the delay requires physics calculations worthy of a submariner to put shot in the same airspace as a bird.

At long last, the sweltering weather seems to have broken with cool nights, showery days and the fallow rut settling us in to autumn’s rhythm. The first pheasants are starting to turn up in bags, and days are going from pure partridge to the days of mixed sport that signal the start of pheasants in seriousness. With the first frosts underfoot, we are selling the last of the late grouse bargains and a few remaining guns and days. The first woodcock have been reported on the Isle of Lewis, with many more to follow as the winter days draw in and the arctic blast we are promised materialises. If you find yourself with some spare days to fill, get in touch…we’ve taken our first booking for January 2013 so you needn’t worry about appearing overeager.

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While quail shooting, I stumbled across a stretch of Bosnian water and, enticed by its clarity and general troutiness, proposed it as a guinea pig trip. A group of old friends took the gamble, using flicking the fluff as an excuse to convene from their homes across Europe for a long weekend in backwoods Bosnia. The very nature of guinea pig trips means, despite my best effort to iron out the kinks from the New Forest, not all excursions run smoothly. Close on the heels of a very successful experimental trip to Spain, I packed my bags and made for Zagreb with that shoe-dropping feeling in my belly.

After collecting the team in Zagreb, we set off in our rental car for Kulen Vakuf. One exchange with the Bosnian police later, and we arrived in deepest (the village lies in the bottom of a vertiginous valley), darkest (it was 1 am). Bright, eager fishermen welcomed the new day and the guide at 9am, only to be greeted by Sullen from Kulen. We can categorically say clinical depression does not a world-class ghillie make. Fortunately, with four of us, the ghillie cloud could only hover over one of us at a time.

The first day was spent fishing a mixture of water, mainly pools and glides on the River Una. Using very small nymphs to little avail, we lured a few six to ten inch rainbows and a half decent grayling from the water. The clarity of the water led to some humorously close shaves as we struggled to judge depth. The impressive flow of the Una made upstream fishing almost impossible. Walking into the river’s power required superhuman strength we mere mortals lacked, so we copied the local method and worked our way downstream. We had an Outside Days first: fishing interrupted by laundry as a local woman joined us on the riverbank with soap and her intimate apparel in lieu of rod and line. An afternoon thunderstorm and heavy rain saw the guinea pigs retreating from the riverbank for the day.

Having shrugged off our Eeyore of a guide, we made for the River Martin Brod. Martin Brod’s trout were far more aggressive on the dry fly, and several pound to pound and a half fish were caught, but the bag was still dominated by prodigious numbers of four to eight inch fish. Just as we were starting to look forward to the afternoon’s hatch, the weather rolled in with another thunderstorm forcing us off the river.

Our final day saw us returning to the Una, this time on the Kulen Vakuf town beat. It’s one of the few places I’ve fished where a fisherman looking for a break from casting has a choice of riverside bars with decks stretching over the water. Packed with locals, they were prime territory for tips and advice from locals au fait with the peculiarities of their water and fish. Off the back of all the local assistance, one impressive specimen was caught among the shoal of smaller fish that we’d accepted as the hallmark of these waters. Mother Nature brought the last day to an abrupt end with an impressive display of weather, including torrential rain and pounding hail.

Three good friends spent a long weekend in a beautiful location on stunning rivers and had great fun…despite the wrong guide and no fish worth mentioning. Having canvassed the locals for an explanation of the lack of large fish in these obviously productive waters, it appears they divide into two camps. An exponential spike in the cormorant population is to blame, posits one faction. No no, responds the other, it is local overfishing to supplement meagre incomes. In reality, the explanation probably sits between the two: there are definitely big fish in the waters, but most are caught with conventional tackle and bakery enticement not on the fly. Oh, and the reason for our guide’s obvious depression? A woman, of course.

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Six months ago a stranger from Spain posted a comment on one of my blogs telling me that where he fished, they caught barbel on the dryfly in numbers. Never one to miss the opportunity to try something new, I packed my bags, guinea pig and tame fishing journalist for the first experiment of the 2011 guinea pig season. After an inauspicious start, earthquakes, heavy rain, a forced relocation and impromptu three hour drive, two bottles of wine at lunch, we were rods in hand on an enormous (86.5square km) reservoir by 5pm. Slight language issues meant gestures and demonstrations were the order of the day, and after our host showed us how it was done, we were soon into fish of our own.

Best described as upside down bonefishing, you see cruising barbel as they come into the shallows to hunt, fins above the water like small scale golden sharks. With the theme tune to Jaws playing in your head, you cast your terrestrial imitation in front of blunt, moustachioed noses. If you get it right, the fish will raise its head and knock the fly several times before rearing up, grabbing it and running in the opposite direction. The shallow water means they have no where to go but out towards the deeper water of the lake, and they keep going until your line is heading for the backing or you are man enough to fight back.

The reservoir offers a huge variety of habitats from boulder-strewn outcrops to white sand flats to grassy coves populated with sheep. This diversity meant that in 30 hours of fishing over two and a half days, we were never bored. Walking continuously and casting in turn, we managed a respectable bag…we averaged about a fish an hour even with the wind creeping up to a lionous force 7 on one day. With the barbel fishing peaking in October at a tremendous 40 barbel a piece, the fishing only gets better. It is possible to fish for barbel on the dryfly for 10 months of the year, although the best seasons are between April and early July and September until November.

I’m already packing my bags and the guinea pigs for our second adventure (Bosnian trout), but if barbel tempts you, I’m taking bookings now for what Toby has described as the best short fishing break he’s ever been on. That says something when you fish all over the world for a job.

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The Three Beverly Hills Attorneys

As a professional adult day care provider and fly fishing guide, I need to be careful about razzing fishing clients on my own blog, even if some of them deserve it. That is why I am offering up this story as a guest post. This occurred long ago when I was in my early 20s and guiding for one of the many fishing lodges on the Kenai River. Fortunately, I now own my own business and handle my bookings directly. Many of my guests return yearly and/or refer their friends and family, so incidents like this no longer happen. No offense is intended toward the many great attorneys out there who work hard so they can fish every chance they can get.

I was supposed to meet three clients at the Kenai Airport arriving on a 9am flight. I waited as passengers deplaned and they did not show up. I called the lodge to inquire if they’d called in, but they’d heard nothing. I waited for the next flight an hour later and still no guys. I figured I’d wait it out for one more. At 10:30, three gentlemen were deposited on the curb by a cab. Could these be my guys? They were standing there in silk jogging suits holding little hand bags. I said, “Are you guys looking for your guide?” They said, “We are here to go to “The Fishing Lodge on the Kenai River”. I said “Which one?” They said, “The Fishing Lodge on the Kenai River.” Apparently they had come in an hour earlier and grabbed a cab, telling the driver to take them to “The Fishing Lodge on the Kenai River”. The cabbie drove them around for an hour and a half. Who knows how many miles they traveled while racking up a steep bill. Knowing the correct name of their destination might have helped.

I got their names and called “The Fishing Lodge on the Kenai River” where I worked. My lodge reached their booking agent and I was somewhat disappointed to find out that they were my guys. I inquired, “Where is your luggage?” They said, “We don’t have any. Our secretary booked the trip and told us that our trip was all-inclusive.” I said, “That’s true, but you still need to bring your own clothes. We are headed straight to the river, already several hours late, and it’s 48 degrees and raining. We are going to have to stop at a sporting goods store so you guys can at least get some rain gear and another layer.”

So I took them into a store where they moaned about having to buy the appropriate gear. We finally got on the river at noon for a float that was over ten miles long. As we launched, the rain quit and they started in about wasting money on rain gear. I advised that they suit up for warmth and to be covered when the rain started again, which it soon did. They didn’t suit up. “It will stop,” they said. Eventually it did, but they were wet, cold and miserable and still complaining about having to buy the stupid raingear. One of the guys produced a bottle of scotch and they proceeded to get drunk and even ruder.

We were fishing for king salmon on the Lower Kenai River in a drift boat after a late start in lousy conditions. It was quickly turning into the boat ride from hell. In the midst of our collective misery and while I was rowing like a mad man to hold the boat in a heavy water slot, the miraculous happened. Two rods went down and two big kings were hooked and ripping line. One went down river toward the ocean liked he’d made a wrong turn, and the other went straight upriver past the boat on a spawning mission not to be derailed. I tried to explain that we needed to chase the down runner if we were going to land either fish. The upper classy fellow with the upstream rocket started screaming at me to chase his fish back up 14,000cfs of heavy water. I politely ignored his request without trying to explain the physics problem. Fortunately his fish self-released while he was seething at me. He refused to reel in his 100yds. of line and it eventually passed the boat, tangled in a sweeper, and I had to cut it off while still trying to navigate around several boulders and stay on the same path as the other fish.

We eventually landed an awesome 55lb. King. At this point, the guys were roaring drunk and going hypothermic, so I felt justified in bailing despite the other two anglers howling about wanting bigger fish than the one their lucky S.O.B. of a friend had caught. On the way down to the landing, they screamed at every boat we passed and complained about lousy fishing. The hour long ride back to the lodge was a real joy. At dinner that night, two of the guys got into a fight and broke some dishes and pretty much scared the other guests.

At breakfast the next morning, I explained that the sockeye salmon fishing on the upper Kenai was really good and that if they were willing to try fly fishing, we could have an action filled day. I figured that even a drunken lawyer from LA could hook some sockeyes the way they were running until they said, “We know all about fly fishing. We just saw that movie.” Right…

So I floated them down to a nice gravel run where sockeye were streaming past. We were set up with 8-wt. fly rods and 300 grain Teeny Lines. I explained the concept of drifting the fly deeply and swinging it across the path of the fish. No false casting necessary. This is a heavy sinking line. Just flip it upstream, roll cast to redirect the angle and lead it back down with the rod tip. My demonstration drift was interrupted by an energetic chrome sockeye. “We know what we’re doing,” they scoffed and the pain fest began. I have never witnessed such careless flogging. No attempts at ordered casting were made and my vain tries at demonstrating the proper technique kept resulting in me hooking more fish. After three tries, I gave up and spent the next hour untangling lines from rocks, vegetation, myself, themselves and pretty much everything but the hundreds of fish that were streaming past.

Finally, one of the guys paused mid flog to take a breath, and his line sank just enough to hook a fish in the dorsal fin. Off it went like a scalded cat, while he yowled as his fingers were battered by the whirling reel handle. I pretty much figured I would lose the fly line without rapid response, so I sprinted down the bar, caught the fly line and drug in the hapless fish, quickly releasing it.

When I walked back up to the guys, they were lined up waiting. “What the f**! do you think you are doing letting our fish go?” I explained that the fish was foul hooked and not a legal catch and that by regulation, we were required to release it. “We don’t give a g** d@^ $*!+about your f*^(!n fishing regulations.” I tried to remain calm while explaining that despite their feelings, I was a fishing guide and my job is to follow the regulations. Under no circumstances was I going to break the law for them. They made their disregard for regulations quite clear and challenged me with their legal expertise. There was more F**! piece of s**! Alaska regulations don’t means S**! to me, before I said, “Let’s go try another spot.” I floated straight to the landing and left them there while I hiked to the road and hitchhiked back to the lodge. I found the lodge manager and explained the situation. He went back and picked them up and they were on a plane home the next day.

These guys win the award for the worst clients ever. Their award is banishment from Alaska for life. They seriously made me question the guiding profession. I’m glad I did not waiver and I’ve now enjoyed many years and hundreds of the Best Clients Ever. There have been unique experiences impossible to enumerate, shared with many great people in some very special places.

If you fancy your shot at being a Best Client Ever, one of his fantastic t-shirts, or just more of his adventures and wisdom, you can find Fred at the aptly named Mystic Fishing.

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There’s no question we’re stressed – just take a look at my follicularly-challenged bonce. Then there are all the statistics on strokes, unfitness and depression: all rising with my blood pressure. So we need to release that valve, blow off some steam, or in a former beloved’s jargon ‘take some ME time’ (clearly an unpopular suggestion given she’s been superceded by No.2). If shutting the bathroom door, lighting candles and filling the tub with bubbles doesn’t float your boat, I have the solution for you: fly fishing.

According to the Stress Reduction Institute, “Even 1 second of relaxation can break up the stress patterns in your brain.” So imagine what an evening’s fly fishing will do! Whether you’re an experienced fluff flicker looking to cast your line in new and uncharted waters for unencountered species or a novice who likes the sound of wandering up the river bank in carpet slippers G&T in hand, when it comes to fish wish fulfilment I’m your man or know someone who will be.

There’s something and somewhere to fish year-round in the UK before you look further afield. So before you end up at the gym, GPs or heaven forbid A&E, join me and mine on the bank (be it pond, river, ocean or lake). For those of you addicted to the adrenaline rush of the gym, nothing raises the heart rate or the spirits like having a tight line.

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One of the things we pride ourselves on here at Outside Days is customer service. Okay, I hear you chortle, it often comes with a measured dose of my humour, soup and a sausage roll. But as we’ve grown, wherever possible, its come with me. In 2010 that became impossible. Because the cloning industry seems to be intransigent in its focus on farm animals, the technology just isn’t there to enable me to replicate myself Michael Keaton-style. So I’ve had to outsource and add a new member to the team.

Please join me in giving a warm field sports welcome to Nick ‘Morgy’ Morgan. For some of you, this introduction comes a tad late, but No. 2 insists you should be flattered: like my kids, I wouldn’t introduce my clients to that special someone until I was certain that they had staying power. Morgy and his canine sidekick Jenson will be holding down the fort when other engagements preclude my joining you, as well as by special request. Into his second score in the shooting field, his experience runs from rats and pigeons to lions, tigers and bears. And he makes a mean soup.

In my defense, when not pursuing pigeons or his life’s ambition of a McNab, Morgy runs Morgan’s Fine Barbecue & Spit Roast Cuisine where expectation is only surpassed by reality. So when you meet Morgy in the field next year, the correct form of address is “Hellooooo Tiger…”. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to explain.

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Subtitle: The Things I Really Need to Know to Make Your Day Work
We start booking shooting for one season before the previous season closes, and are in full swing planning for the season to come by the time March becomes lamb-like. Much as I love extended email conversations and playing phone tennis, tag, and catch with all of you, it helps if you’ve done a little thinking before we start. We work with so many different shoots, each offering a selection of different opportunities, that it’s hard to know where to start when the email says ‘looking for some shooting…prices and dates please’.

Knowing what quarry you’d like to shoot, where or when you’d like to shoot helps narrow the choices. Grouse are a possibility in northern Britain from August 12th to December 10th, but you can forget shooting in the Outer Hebrides until September, or being within an hour of London ever.

Do you care how many times you pull the trigger? How high the birds are? How far you will have to preambulate between pegs? Is your dog just for show, or do you expect to use its services on the day? Are you solo, or blessed with an entire team of compatriots eager for the off? Can you shoot any day except the first Tuesday of each month, or are you a weekend warrior? Gourmand content only with linen tablecloths and a selection of fine wines? Cottage pie or casserole in the shoot room? Fish and chips at the pub? Or sausage rolls and soup on the tailgate of the Landrover?

Do you have to be back on your doorstep for dinner at 5? Looking to stay in a sporting lodge complete with singing laird and scotch pancakes? Fancy a pub with a roaring fire that allows your dog to stay? Or maybe a B&B whose landlady has an encyclopedic knowledge of local watering holes?

I’m sure you get the picture. The more specific you can be, the closer to your dream spec I can tailor the day. Of course, giving me plenty of notice always helps…

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Before you start shaking your head about the cost of foreign travel (never mind sporting holidays) and cleaning your weapons in preparation for mothballing, have a look at Outside Days out of season sporting breaks. After all, I didn’t get a can of WD40 for my birthday because I am a frivolous spendthrift.
Texas
No. 2′s nationality has nothing to do with my passion for this vast state and the varied sport it offers (her kind cling to the coasts). From quail over pointers to hogs in high seats and bass from boats, there is literally sport to be had 365 days of the year. Packages can be as simple or complex as you like: take in multiple venues or be based from one camp, devote yourself to one quarry or sample a plethora of sporting opportunities. In 2011, start from $250USD a day.

Argentina
The high volume dove shooting in Argentina needs very little introduction, nor does Tierra del Fuego and its enormous sea trout. But it wouldn’t be an Outside Days adventure if we hadn’t explored every nook and cranny to bring you sport off the beaten track. The pampas holds enormous trophy reds and antelope that will have the stalkers dreaming, and Patagonia’s stunning trout rivers and freshwater lakes will take the ardent flyfisherman by surprise. Whether iconic Argentinian sport or a diversion from convention gives you the shivers, we can take you there with 2011 excursions starting at $450USD a day.

South Africa
Last year’s guinea pig trip is this year’s strong contender for the best boys trip away, offering huge value that almost matches the bag. We offer a range of South African options from the luxe and plush colonial to the no-frills lodge experience. From wildebeast to dove and all sizes of fur and feather in between, we’ve got a southern African trip to suit. And the meager hour time difference means no jet lag! With 2011 African experiences available from £1,600 for a week, you can trade the heat of the British spring and summer for the balmy African winter.

Croatia
With the amount of time I spent there last year and the fun I had, I’m considering registering as a Croatian citizen. They think nothing of waking before dawn to pursue quail over pointers, then heading to the Dalmatian coast for a bit of spearfishing and baitfishing, or to icy mountain streams for trout before returning for another bash at the birds. Add chamois, moufflon, boar and woodcock to the sporting menu and it represents pretty amazing value within a couple of hours of London. Let’s be honest, that’s closer than the big Devon high bird shoots (for most of us), and with two days of sport starting at 900euros in 2011, a LOT more affordable.

If any of these sporting destinations appeal to you, please get in touch so we can help you customise a trip to suit.

******CALLING ALL GUINEA PIGS******
If you like the unexpected, the bargain, the occasional compromise, and expressing your considered opinions in a constructive way, this is for you.

Every year, we add a few new strings to our bow. And, as you would expect from us, everything is road tested before we offer it to the wider world. The road test dummies, affectionately known as guinea pigs, get bargain trips to stunning (well, we hope) locations. In exchange, they tolerate me and the unforeseen. Risks have included dodgy transfers, mystery meat, unusual food combining (banana, ham and salad cream sandwiches), local games, and patchy sport. On the other hand, we’ve had enormous bags of a diversity of birds, real bargains, made some new friends around the globe, and no shortage of laughter.

Providing I have enough of you volunteer to be experimented on, the 2011 offerings include:
* Flyfishing for trout on the rivers in Bosnia
* A three day barbel on the dry-fly trip to Spain. Yes, you read that right, my fantasy fishing experiment has been made a reality by the Spaniards.
* Partridge, taimen and antelope, the Mongolian McGenghis, for the really adventurous.

Sign up now to join the doughty band of adventurers named after a children’s pet. You, too can be an Outside Days guinea pig.

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