Dance with the Cobbles: Chasing Winter Bass on the Llyn
I awoke from the last of my night shifts surprisingly fresh as a daisy.
The sun was shining, and I thought Why not? Let’s have it, even if I don’t catch it will still be good to get out. I literally threw my gear into the back of my car, and I was up and out in a matter of 30 minutes, a record for me
I drove down to the Llyn Peninsula with more hope than expectations. It’s a state of mind familiar to any of us anglers—the rational part of your brain lists the reasons it’s a fool’s errand, while the stubborn, hopeful heart insists on packing the gear. The Welsh mountains, seen on the drive in, were covered in snow, while the lower villages had only a festive dusting, even if the calendar still read November. The car recorded temperatures going down to -2.5 °C
A light dusting of snow on the hillsides
The walk down was an enclosed, tree and bush-lined, twisting, twining path, frosted and silent, apart from the roar of a full-to-bursting stream leading down to the cobbled-stone beach. A 24 mph northern wind had decided to escort me, pushing at my back with insistent, icy hands. At least casting won’t be an issue, I thought, trying to find the silver lining in the challenging conditions.
The beach itself. It looked less like a shoreline and more as if the moon had vomited cobbles everywhere (I think this every time I come here). A vast, stark landscape of grey, rounded stones stretched out before me, sloping into a sea the colour of bruised steel. The cold and slippery cobbles made every step a calculated risk.
But, me being me, I just had to go to the furthest point where I’d done well during early summer. A spit of land about 300 metres away promised fish if I could cast far and accurately enough to a hidden reef. So began the traverse—a slow, comical, and deeply perilous trek across 300 metres of sheer slipperiness. The black, smooth granite cobbles were the worst, like nature’s own greased ball bearings, waiting for a misstep.
Twice, my confidence outpaced my footing. I was upended, a flailing plantpot in gigantic proportions. Both times, fortune favoured the foolish; I landed with a heavy thud on my backpack, my rod held safe and high in a white-knuckled grip like Excalibur itself. Lying there, staring at the Mullet colored sky, the sheer absurdity of the situation hit me. This is what we do. This is the madness that passes for passion.
Eventually, I reached the casting honeypot. Setting up was a battle against freezing fingers and a wind that snatched at loose lines. The hours that followed were challenging when you’re not catching, and it’s cold and windy, it’s harder to keep going, you need encouragement at least.
The cold seeped through layers, the wind carved away all feeling in my face, and the cobbles remained a treacherous obstacle course beneath my feet. I waded no further than 20 yards into the sea; it was just not worth the risk.
The first cast, with a Rooney’s paddletail, was a costly one—a sharp crack and 20 yards of line lost to a submerged snag. Cursing under my breath, the real test began: tying a new leader and lure clip with fingers that felt like frosted sausages. It was a painstaking, clumsy ritual that took an age.
Two hours went by with just one good, heart-stopping attack on a baby patch to give me a flicker of hope. I’d tried all my usual white lures, the summer dynamos, that I know work here. Eventually, I switched to Mullet colored lures. The night sky looked a little bit Mullet coloured. I say stuff like this to myself to give hope. The Hunthouse 155 in Mullet was tried without success.
Desperation, or perhaps inspiration, made me reach for a new weapon: an Iborn 98F in a colour called “Bora.” It was a dark, iridescent lure that seemed to hold the night sky within it, something that had worked for me before. With the tide at its peak, I launched the fresh-out-of-the-packet Iborn with the wind behind it, aiming for a shallow reef.
Halfway through the retrieve, it happened. I was hit by a 56 cm silver assassin. The fight was spirited, but the battle was made infinitely harder as I tried to balance on the shifting cobbles in two feet of freezing water. Finally, I guided her to shore, my heart pounding, and managed a few quick photos with frozen, fumbling hands before sending her back into the inky black. How I wish I’d brought my net with me. I make landing Bass harder than they should be sometimes.
Mission Accomplished 56cm
The hope was now a solid, thrilling certainty. Just fifteen minutes later, in the flat calm water that had settled more after the wind dropped, another, bigger hit wrenched my rod tip down. I knew this was a better fish. The fight was on again, a tense game of give and take on the slippery stage. Then, disaster. The fish became entangled—not in seaweed, but in the very same line and Rooney lure I’d lost hours before. It was suspended 20 yards out, stuck fast. I couldn’t reel another inch.
There was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, I began to navigate out to the tangled mess. The water was clear and calm, revealing a labyrinth of slippery boulders beneath. I inched forward with my staff held firmly, the cold sea climbing almost to the top of my waders. Reaching the tangle, I carefully released my fish from the rogue line, stuffed the salvaged Rooney lure into my pocket, and finally grabbed the fish by its sharp gills. Now came the small matter of getting us both back to shore without taking an involuntary, icy swim. It was a slow, precarious retreat, but I made it. On shore, I was delighted to measure a lovely 63 cm beauty—a true prize from an adventurous night.
Lost line causing havoc
Don’t laugh, an unfortunate photo
I stayed another two hours, until midnight, the cold seeping into my very bones. The fishing was successfully done; to stay longer would be to choose rigor mortis as a bedmate. Now, all that remained was the long, hilly walk back to the car, every muscle protesting, and the prospect of a frosty, long drive home. As I trudged up the path, the memory of those two silver shapes gleaming in my headtorch light was a fire that kept me warm all the way. I was buzzing.
Thanks for reading
Footnote: A Final Thought….Solitude
Nights like this are great, but they underscore how things can go wrong. A discarded line, a moment of imbalance, the decision to wade into freezing water alone to free a snag. What felt like an adventure in the moment could easily have tipped into a calamity. There’s some learning here: to better respect the cold, the water, and the very real risks of fishing alone. The fish is never worth the price. The memory, however, is a smart reminder to be safer next time, or will I
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