Where trout speak French

(2015- L’Isle sur La Sorgue, Provence, France)

A winding path led us ever deeper into a box canyon behind which steep chalky looking cliffs rose 230 meters high.  If it were not for the numerous open-air riverside cafes, souvenir and ice cream shops along the river Sorgue, I would have believed I was walking along an isolated trout stream just waiting to be fished.
Dottie and I were on a mission to find the source of the Sorgue, which happens to flow around and through the little Provencal village of L’Isle sur la Sorgue, our home for eight lovely days last month.
We had arrived in Provence the day before by way of the high-speed TGV train from Paris.  We drove our rental car out of the Avignon train station toward L’Isle sur la Sorgue in the pouring rain, fearing that our week there might be too damp to enjoy. But by the time we covered the 30 kilometers the rain had stopped. The Sorgue ran only a few hundred feet from our front door. 
Our following day’s quest had taken us 10 kilometers east of the village into a lush, green countryside, then further up a gradually narrowing canyon through which the tree-lined river ran icy-cold (53 degrees) and clear. The road ended at the tiny village Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, from which we had taken the footpath further into the canyon.
The path steepened and the cafes and ice cream stands were left behind.  Suddenly we faced the canyon wall and realized we could go no further. Below us, water gushed forth from a thousand different springs and cracks in the cliff.  No gentle spring is the Fontaine, but rather an instant river.  It is the biggest spring in France, and the fifth largest in the world with an annual flow of 630 million cubic meters.
It has been home to humans since the Neolithic era and was part of a trade route used by the Phoenicians and later the Romans.
Some of the water flows out of caves under the cliffs and it is said that many divers have tried and failed to find the bottom of these flooded caves.   
There was a hermit who lived there in the Middle Ages.  He was probably a trout fisherman who didn’t want any other anglers fishing in his back yard.  This guy allegedly performed some miracles (inventing the recipe for trout almondine for instance) and this led to his being consecrated as the first Bishop of Cavaillon. He then had to let some other guys join him (probably all fly-fishers) and a monastery was built.
There doesn’t seem to be a lot of recorded history about fishing in the Sorgue, but Dottie and I saw trout in it.  In fact, we had lunch at a cafe on a patio overlooking the water, from which we could see the fish feeding lazily in the crystal clear current.
Lingering over a bottle of local Rhone red, with fresh baked bread, cheese and fruit, I looked forward to my second day in Provence, which I had scheduled with a local guide who had agreed to take me fishing. 

Part Dieux

Sorguett, the fly shop in L’Isle sur la Sorgue is hard to miss. The bright green metal building sits on a main intersection just outside the village, which is about twice the size of the Sonoma Plaza area.
After Dottie and I had found the source of the Sorgue River, I decided to stop by the shop and introduce myself to Nicolas DiLuca, with whom I had corresponded for several months and who was set to be my guide the next day.
The shop was filled floor to ceiling with every kind of hunting and fishing tackle and gear known to mankind.
I walked in and introduced myself to Eric Arnaud, the very friendly, gracious owner of the shop. He spoke absolutely no English, but seemed to understand my French.  His rapid French left me guessing most of the time, but we managed to converse.
Two other men were in the shop, who, upon learning that I was from California, wanted to know all about steelhead fishing here.  Unfortunately steelhead was just about the only English they knew.  Nevertheless, we had a nice time swapping fish tales even if many things were lost in the translation.
Nicolas was there too. Fortunately he spoke some English.  I bought my fishing permit and a few flies and we talked about our plans for the next day’s fishing.
At 9 am the next morning, Nicolas and I drove east out of L’Isle sur la Sorgue toward the Fontaine de Vaucluse where Dottie and I had been the previous day.
But our route was apparently a local’s shortcut and we ended up going through a gate onto private property. We drove down a narrow dirt road that led us to the south bank of the Sorgue, almost directly across from where Dottie and I had parked our car the day before.  This section of the Sorgue, had a sort of civilized Garden of Eden quality to it.  Large trees, old stone walls, framed what look like partially tended gardens. The dominant color was green.  The water was so clear, brilliant green weeds covered the bottom. It looked like un-mowed lawn growing under glass.
No other anglers were in sight.
After I rigged up my Orvis seven-piece, 5 wt. fly rod and Nicolas decided which nymph I should use first, we began the hunt for fish.  He explained that on the Sorgue it was all “sight-fishing.”  We had to spot the fish in the water and cast the fly so that it floated right to the tip of its nose.
Nicholas, a healthy 30-something with eyes like an osprey, had no trouble seeing the trout.  I, a 70-something with the vision of Mr. Magoo, saw a blur of weeds, shadows and flowing water.
“There!” He’d say pointing in the general direction of the river.
“Where?” I’d respond.
“There!” he’d say again.
“Where?” I’d respond again.
He tried giving directions in French. I tried responding in French.
Our routine had a certain Abbot and Costello “Who’s on first?” quality to it.
Muttering the only French expletive I know, I finally flicked my fly in the general direction that he pointed. The trout must have understood my French.
Nicolas shouted,  “Now. Set. Now” or something close to that in French, and I raised my rod. Sure enough, I had a fish on…for maybe three seconds.
The rest of our morning followed a similar pattern. My French improved and once in a while I actually saw the fish I was casting to.

Part Trois

Sight fishing is an effective way to catch trout, assuming one is an eagle.  An angler, on the other hand, must see the trout, cast a fly so that it drifts naturally with the current into his primary feeding zone (in front of his nose), watch him bite it, and then set the hook.
Nicolas DiLuca, my guide on the river Sorgue in Provence, France told me that this is the French way to catch trout. To demonstrate, he’d stand on the bank his fish-hawk-like eyes scanning the water.  I stood there with him squinting in the same general direction. I didn’t see many fish. In my defense, neither did he.  But he saw more than I.
“There,” he’d point.  I’d rarely see anything but glare and shadows beneath the ripples in the current where he was pointing.  My casts were inevitably late or in the wrong spot.
After several hours of hunting and mostly missing targets, my young French guide declared, “Not many fish out today.” 
I think he was being polite. I bet he wanted to say “What good does it do for me to see the fish if you can’t? This is a waste of time.”
Our day of fishing, which started at 9 am, was over by 1 pm, just in time for a nice, long, two-hour, mid-day French déjeuner.
On the way back to our apartment in L’Isle sur la Sorgue, he pointed out spots to fish virtually right in the village, just steps from my door.
After a long lunch and nap, plus a stroll around town, I decided to try some late afternoon fishing in town.  Sidewalks, trees and benches line the Sorgue as it winds around and through the little village. Old houses, probably built in the 16th Century, line the street. A few old waterwheels are also kept turning in the river just for show.
 Perhaps it was better light or a better angle, but I saw trout as I walked along the stream.  Large trees on both sides of the river made casting a challenge, but I found a few spots where I could manage a short cast to some working fish.
The water was so clear I could watch my little nymph drift along below the surface toward the feeding fish.  My first drift went by a trout 12 inches to its left. Too far.  My next drift was perfect. The fish opened its mouth, sipped in the little nymph and, after a brief tussle, I released my first French trout. The locals called them “zebra trout,” but it looked like a strain of German brown trout to me.
Over the next hour and a half I caught and released three more.  They were small, seven to eight inches.  People walked their dogs and strolled by with their young children along the sidewalk behind me as I fished.  The kids asked me what I was doing. My French was close to a four-year-old’s level. They seemed to understand.
In one spot, several guys who were playing pétanque on a court across the river watched me, applauding as I brought a fish in. They looked puzzled when I let it go. Even the trout asked, “Pourquoi?”
The only thing missing from this delightful experience was a lovely chanteuse singing La Vie en Rose from a nearby balcony.


Part Quatre

The Sorgue River that runs through L’Isle sur la Sorgue, a small village about 35 miles east of Avignon in Provence, is so cold (53 degrees Fahrenheit), that it is not only home to trout, but also arctic char. 
The char, a close relative of salmon and lake trout, is mainly found in deep, cold, northern glacial lakes. Except, these char are French, stubborn Provençales.
While I had a hard time seeing the trout, there was no mistaking the char, who moved lazily and confidently through the clear waters with no apparent fear of or interest in anything.
The day after I had my most successful trout fishing on the Sorgue, I went back to my favorite part of the stream along the town’s northern edge. I saw more trout, and several large char (in 20-inch and above range).  They were holding in relatively shallow water less than 10 feet from the bank where I stood.
My first cast passed by the first char less than 10 inches from its nose. Once, I swear I hit the fish on the nose.
Nothing. Not a nibble, not a sniff.  I imagined the char gave me a scornful laugh turned to his buddy and said, “Heh, heh, that American is a stupid one. I spit on his ugly fly.” (In a French accent of course.)
I tried every fly I had without success.  Short of jumping into the river and grabbing it with my bare hands, I ran out of options and went back to fishing for trout.
I concluded that French char prefer something other than insects – a little cheese or fois gras perhaps?
Speaking of cheese and other delights of Provence, Dottie and I did some of our best research in the restaurants that line sections of the river, and also spent a full morning shopping at the enormous, village-wide market that L’Isle has every Sunday.
Our apartment on the third floor of a 16th Century building in town faced a narrow, one-lane, pedestrian-only street.  When we came downstairs Sunday morning, we had a hard time getting out the front door because one of hundreds of vendors had set up her booth in front of it.
We greeted her with a friendly “bonjour,” squeezed out the door, and joined a throng of locals and visitors shuffling elbow-to-elbow from booth to booth, sampling and buying all sorts of locally produced cheese, fish, meat, vegetables, fruit, bread (le pain est irrésistible), wine, sauces, pastries, and sweets. Other vendors offered clothes, books, jewelry and antiques.
We bought our lunch and dinner, which included several different kinds of locally produced cheese and foie gras, a fresh Cavaillon melon, for which the region is famous, a variety of local vegetables, local wine and the most delicious bread in the world. We had a feast.
Provence is green, like the Sonoma and Napa Valley’s in spring.  There are a lot of orchards, vineyards and vegetable farms.  But there are also remains of Roman buildings and bridges, hillside towns that date back centuries and narrow, winding roads made the way the cows came home (two-cows wide in most places).
The larger cities in Provence, like Avignon and Aix, are worth a visit too.  Dottie and I and Tom and Katherine Culligan met Sonomans Alain and Jacquey Piallat in Aix for a wonderful tour and delightful lunch at the hotel Alain, a native of France, manages in Aix. Alain was a top-level executive (including president) of Marriott in Canada and the USA for 30 years, and occasionally gets called back into service when a resort property needs his veteran’s magic touch.
He still has family and a family home in Provence and he and Jacquey spend a great deal of time enjoying what the rest of us must try to absorb in a few days.
Still, Dottie and I did our best to see (and eat) as much as we could.