A SQUAT BURLY figure with a deep voice, she sipped tea with genteel care. My attention had been drawn when she growled at her tiffin companions - and they had gruffed back. Before I could work out what they were saying, they had stood up, straightened their frocks, clutched their handbags and bustled to the bar. "Have you seen the ladies?" asked Marian, the hotel manageress. "They've come down from their place on the moors. There are ten of them; all transvestites." So began an evening and a day in Llangollen.

I was here to fish for grayling - that altogether different type of lady - and to improve my fly-dressing but I had also wanted to challenge my prejudice. I had wondered if I could anticipate a day's grayling fishing with as much eagerness as I book a day's salmon fishing. For me there has always seemed more enjoyable ritual and fuss to salmon fishing.

Before I had pointed my car west, I had my answer. First, I had read past river reports; then I'd checked water levels - every hour on the phone; next I ordered too much tackle, naturally; then I had leafed through old books to discover how I might pay my respects to the river by fishing a traditional fly. Finally, I had scoured the web for Dee "chatter". In short, I had developed a ritual for grayling. I was evidently keen.

Arriving in Llangollen I found the next question harder to answer. I'm smitten by history and I had wondered if there is a town of pilgrimage for grayling fishers, in the way that Kelso's cobbled square lures salmon folk and Stockbridge streams draw trouty types. Would Llangollen's high street pubs be bristling with old cane and Red Tag men? It was a tobacco pipe dream, I know. Llangollen is lovely, but I don't think Thymallus thymallus leaves a deep imprint, despite the good reports.

I'd hoped for a grayling sculpture in the square but I didn't see even another fisher. Perhaps my pilgrims' town is further north...

Yet there is an opportunity for homage at the Chainbridge; few hotels can enjoy such a spectacular location, misty deep in Dee gorge, beneath charming Berwyn steam-railway station with its Woodbine advertisement, paces from the beginning of the Llangollen Canal. Walls do sport fishy photographs, although there could be many more: a Who's Who of grayling fishing have plied their innovative tackle and flies on these waters.

It was in the bar, beside the wood stove, after the "ladies" had gone, that I met Louis Noble, my guide and and fly-tying tutor. Joining us was Steve Whitney from Chester, who had also booked this night/day "course" of fly-tying and fishing.

Louis has fished for 50 years and has been teaching for 40. Once editor of the Flydressers' Guild magazine, he has corresponded and fished with many great fishing minds. "I remember Hans van Klinken fishing here," he told me and pointed out of the window to where lights from the famous chain bridge illuminated the river, "with great big nymphs more than 20 years ago, and I remember when he sent me an article about his Rackelhanen - a tan fly, which was, I think, a forerunner to the Klinkhamer. Now when people join me at the vice, I ask people what they want to tie. 'I'm having trouble with Klinkhamer wings,' they say. 'Let's tie some,' I say," He smiled. Louis hosts up to three or four rods at a time. In the evenings there can be fly-tying or entomology or both. It's up to the guest.

That evening after a short debate, Steve and I asked him if he would show us how to tie a Shrimp pattern. We both had rudimentary tying skills, and thought a Shrimp would test our mettle. There followed a masterclass, with the kind of hands-on instruction and detail you can't glean from a book. From the height of the vice to the angle of the hook to the colour of the thread. Next, a thread underbody, matching turns of lead, pinch-and-loop, and the tying of the shellback over the underbody so there would be no lumps. And on to Steve's first attempt at dubbing. "Now you've the dodgy bit," said Louis. "The shellback wasn't the dodgy bit?" said Steve. "That was the easy bit," said Louis.

And on. The concentration increased. Steve was adept at hackling and palmering, but this was new ground. He learned to wax the thread and hold it above the hook, for more room, before applying the dubbing - flesh - coloured dubbing, incidentally, because this outperforms more garish pink on the Dee.

"It's a doddle, this," said Steve, tongue half in cheek. He scruffed down the legs with a toothbrush. And tied down the shellback. He looked at Louis' photographs of natural cased caddis for an indication of how many ribs of 5 lb nylon to apply. Next, a critical juncture at which to reveal you have forgotten how to whip finish. "I'm not letting go," said Steve. "I've come too far."

It seemed like ages, and was five agonising minutes, but after securing the shellback with a temporary half-hitch, Steve was reminded how to whip finish. It was a tense time: jaws were locked, beads of sweat formed. "I hate that," he laughed, afterwards. "But it is amazingly easy when you've an expert at your shoulder." I took a slug of my beer.

I have always thought of fly-tying as a solitary pursuit, undertaken in a quiet room, away from a nagging family. But here we were in a public bar, exchanging thoughts, Steve and I picked at Louis' mine of knowledge for nuggets of advice. Occasionally, inquisitive drinkers would rise from their stools and take a peek at our progress. Throughout, Louis led, naturally, and his flies were impeccable. He slowed each movement down and repeated it so we could see how it was done.

" I can teach finesse to anyone," he told me. "The more you do it, the more you develop your hands." It made me wonder. I meet a few arrogant types who appear to have seen everything and are happier to voice their opinion than to converse or listen. Then I meet those who appear simply to have reached a level at which they know enough about fishing to be content. But is there really a point at which we stop wanting to learn?

Louis told me: "Some that join me are geniuses, but even geniuses will learn something. We share 'advice'."

When from time to time, we have surveyed the great T&S readership, we have discovered that perhaps 60 per cent of you tie flies, although how frequently is not known. Intriguing, for there can be no greater pleasure than catching a fish with your own fly - and yet 40 per cent of us don't own a vice. Which is why I think these tie-then-fish breaks have appeal - they can give you impetus and confidence.

Later that evening, more complicated Czech nymphs were tried with dubbing variations. There were words of encouragement but also a critique. Louis pointed out where a hook had been slightly bent, a shellback was not quite straight and when there was too much dubbing. When Steve had finished his final Shrimp - which looked superb and rather better than my efforts - he faced a dilemma, "shall I frame it or fish with it?" Tomorrow we would find out. >