Slovenia is one of those countries that most people have heard of but know little else about. Well apart from being a beautiful and friendly country it also has some incredibly good trout fishing.

I was originally drawn to Slovenia by the admirable reputation of its two largest rivers, namely the Soca and the Sava. Both rivers are capable of producing world-class fly-fishing on their day and I had enjoyed good days on both during my stay. It was however on neither of these streams that I had my most enjoyable fishing experience while in Slovenia. The highlight of my trip was the day I spent on a mountain stream called the Radonva.

The reason I was drawn to the stream was that it contains the only self-sustaining population of Brook Trout in Europe. I was given a bit of a shock when I inquired about buying a day ticket to fish the stream. A day ticket was around A$80, expensive for a trout stream even by European standards. I was finally persuaded into buying a ticket by the guy in the tackle store, who assured me the fishing was first class.

The next day I was up at the crack of dawn, determined to get full value for my hard earned 60 Euro. When I pulled the car up in a small dirt car park, I was faced with a vi-sion that would get any fly fisherman's heart fluttering. There in front of me was the per-fect pool - kidney shaped with a fast glide at the head. In the middle just out from the closest bank a deep pocket had been scoured out, which gradually shallowed towards the tail of the pool. It just screamed fish! And sure enough there in the middle of the deep pocket finned a Brown Trout of no less than two pounds. How could I tell it was a Brownie?

Well the water was a clear as crystal, almost unnaturally transparent. Allowing me to see all the spots on the fish's back, almost like a huge liquid magnifying glass.

The longer I looked the more fish became obvious, like an entourage surrounding the big brown, they occupied all the best holding areas within the pool. It was the largest number of trout I had ever seen in such a small area.

I flogged away at the pool for ½ hour before I realised that these fish probably come under a fair bit of fishing pressure, being in front of the car park, and that there would be easier targets further a field.

I made my way downstream. It was a classic mountain stream - crystal clear water racing between large granite boulders with the occasional drowned tree. The pools were deep and mysterious, with plenty of holding areas for fish. Banks of shale made up the shallow tail waters.

It was still early in the morning and the sun's rays had yet to work their magic. As a result there was very little warmth and no insect life. I decided that using a dry fly would be ineffectual. I tied on a black whooley bugger, a fly that seems to catch trout where ever in the world they exist. It didn't take long to be productive.

I fished downstream through the head of a small pool, as the fly swung around in the current it was attacked. A small brown sprinted around the pool for a while before the constant pressure from the rod ex-hausted it. I slide it up the bank next to me. What an incredibly handsome fish! It was definitely a brown trout but totally different to any brownie that I have ever laid eyes on.

Its flanks were silver with just a hint of gold along the back and it was almost devoid of spots except for a dozen or so bright red ones sprinkled along its length. The fish was healthy and feisty, quickly swimming away once released.

It is a great feeling catching the first fish of the day, especially on a foreign river in a foreign country. The duck was broken which meant that I could relax and enjoy my new and unexplored surroundings.

For me, it is in this situation that river fly fishing comes into its own. It changes from a pastime into an adventure.

You never know what lies around the next bend. This urges you on, slashing through the vegetation and then quietly creeping up to each pool on hands and knees. Constantly looking for the shadow of a big fish on the streambed or the concentric circles on the surface of the water that indicate a feeding fish.

I fished on and a short while later spotted a large fish holding station next to an undercut bank. Like most places where big trout lay this one required an almost impossible cast to reach it. Of course I tried and with no surprise I got caught in the bushes on the far bank. I tried to loosen the fly by whipping my rod up and down.

In hindsight an unwise decision. The nimble 5 weight 4 piece rod couldn't handle the abuse and broke close to the top spigot. An appalling sound especially when you have no spare rods.

Continued...

I couldn't fish on, so it seemed like a good time to go to the nearest town and have lunch. Once there I quickly nipped into the tackle shop. They had a small selection of rods but none that could replace the one I had just broken. I was going to have to repair it. The question was with what? A visit to the supermarket proved enlightening. An hour later after some whittling and the unusual combination of plumber's tape, 15lb line and super-glue. The rod was back in business.

As a drove back to the stream I noticed that the sun was finally having an effect. The air was warm on my skin and the sky was full of tiny insects. What unfolded was an afternoon of pure magic. The lowering sun gave the air a golden tinge. Hatching caddis bounced all over the surface of the stream. The trout were rising in every conceivable bit of holding water. The river was alive!

I caught a nice brownie and decided to take a photo of it. As I waded to the shore, my line and fly trailing behind me, another small brownie latched on. The first time I've ever re-leased two trout at the same time. I was still keen on hooking a Brook Trout. I had been advised that they rarely rise to insect hatches.

So I decided to try a small golden lure pattern that had been recommended to me. Shortly after I hooked a brook trout, in a shallow run. I could see its small mottled green body slashing around trying to escape. Unfortu-nately it did just as was about to reach down to release it. This didn't bother me, I was going to release it anyway. At least I had seen it. After that I couldn't ignore the slashing rises all around me and changed back to a dry fly.

I reached a small bend in the stream. A house was built on the outside of the bend; its re-taining wall formed the bank of a deep pool.

From this pool I caught two almost identical brown trout of just under half a pound each. I wondered if the owner of the house was a fisherman.

If he or she is they must practice catch and release religiously.

The number of fish I caught and released went well into double figures. Each one started to blur into the next. I caught one more for the pan and decided to call it a day. The sun was getting low and I had a long walk back to the car.

I got back to the car with a few minutes of light to spare. The pool at the bottom of the weir that I was parked next to beckoned for one last cast. I couldn't resist.

I stood at the bottom of the weir and cast into the small eddies that were formed to the side of the main flow. As the light began to fade large moths started to fly around. I changed flies and tied on a large orange humpy hoping that it would be mistaken for a drowning moth. On my first cast I was just able to see a large mouth engulf the fly as it passed down stream.

I set the hook and a big trout took to the air in a series of jumps. This had to be a rainbow and sure enough when I landed it a few minutes later, despite the lack of light, I could see the silver body and splash of red on the gill plate that typifies the species.

The best fish of the day, at a glance probably just a touch over 2 pounds. The perfect end to a perfect day. It was one of those rare days when everything seems to go right. It doesn't happen very of-ten but when it does it's as close to heaven on earth as you can get.

Until Next time....