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. >

< IN THE MORNING I discovered too much river - in a good sense. You could fish here all your life. Llangollen AA have 12 miles of grayling-rich habitat with hundreds of necks, tails, gullies, glides and pots. It was late November and before the grayling had begun to shoal in earnest, so went to two of Louis' favoured pools - Dereck's and The Glide.

On either bank, trees clung to their last leaves. The water was 3 ft deep, ideal for Czech-nymphing. Louis fished an 8 ft cast: 4 ft 8 inches of 6 lb fluorocarbon and 3 ft 4 inches of 4 lb fluorocarbon, although copolymer would also do - the flies are pulled down so quickly that the type of leader doesn't make much difference.

Droppers were 20 inches apart and 4-6 inches long. To stop the droppers twizzling around the leader, which can be an irritant with water-knot droppers, Louis forms his droppers by tying figure-of-eight loop knots to the leader. The figure-of-eight loop knot is effectively double strength and stands the dropper proud of the leader. The knot is stopped from sliding down the leader by the blood knots he uses to join lengths of the tapered leader. Finally, some coloured dough is moulded around the fly-line butt to act as an indicator.

Louis started with a Red Tag Bug on the top dropper, a tungsten Pinkie Shrimp in the middle, and a Tan Shrimp on the point. But he would keep ringing the changes. "Part of me regrets that we have discovered Czech-nymphing," he said, as we stepped down the bank. "The river's pots and holes were once a sanctuary to fish and now we rake across them."

We tottered across the rocky riverbed and took our places, three of us within 30 yards of one another, which doesn't often happen when fly-fishing. Many find Czech-nymphing, well, dull: the repetition of the windmill cast, nymphs splashing down, staring at the fly-line as it trots past your toes, a strike for luck on the dangle and bowl the cast upstream again. Perhaps it's the methodical nature of covering every inch of water, splitting it into sections, that's unappealing. But others like it for exactly this reason. And it is deadly. I caught three fish in three casts, wholly out of character.

The fish took as the nymphs drew opposite, the rod tip just ahead of the line. My eyes were glued to the yellow dough, dallying in the water, and then, suddenly, it was animate, a twitch one way or a definite pull downwards. Lift the rod and the weight of the grayling bounced on the rod tip. Though small, they were like eels. And each time they fell to the same size 16 Red Tag Bug on the top dropper.

I could have fished that way all day but Louis had something better in mind. He had told me the previous evening, "nothing gives me greater pleasure than to fish Clyde-style flies on the Clyde. I'm in heaven, I'm a real Clyde-style buff, although I get quite brittle when I see people tying these patterns incorrectly."

He loaded a 10 ft 3 inch four-weight rod with a double-taper line, four flies, 3 ft apart, on 3 inch droppers tied, again, using a figure-of-eight loop knot. Opening Louis' fly-box was like lifting the lid on a pirate's casket. Beautiful flies every one, placed thus, from the top dropper down: Waterhen Bloa; a Partridge, Orange and Yellow, Clyde-style; a Hen Blackie, Clyde-style; and on the point, a Cran Swallow.

We would be double-speycasting the flies square across the stream, and then high-sticking them down. The double spey would help to avoid tangles with today's wind, down and into the face, as we fished from the right bank. Then things became more complicated. To improve turnover, normal tapering was almost reversed and Louis created a form of weight-forward leader to help "kick" the flies over into the wind and straighten the cast.

The 11 ft leader went like this, from the fly-line: 1 ft of 7 lb; 1 ft of 10 lb; 2 ft of 15 lb; 1 ft of 10 lb; 2 ft of 7 lb; 2 ft of 4 and a half lb, in two lengths to accommodate a dropper; and 2 ft of 3lb. This is cast to tie up at home before you reach the river.

It was a graceful and rhythmic way of fishing. The sweep of the double spey with the light yet long rod (Louis is looking for an even longer, 11 ft, 4-wt). the rod held high high for easy mending, to keep the line behind the fly and avoid drag. Keep the line in the left hand as the flies slink down the water, waiting for a pluck or a lift of the line off the rod tip.

It is a method that is most effective on the Dee between September and December before the grayling hunker down in the coldest weather. The flies fish within a few inches of the surface and it is fun to see which pattern is most successful. The Hen Blackie did well that day.

I had tried so many techniques over an intense 24 hours, but had yet to try a dry-fly. It was late, but there were still a few olives on the wing, and it would somehow complete my "education". I fumbled for CDC, but Louis offered me his lovely old metal fly-box. There in the corner was an Orange Otter - I couldn't resist it. Louis had told me the previous evening how he had approximated a good orange fur substitute for the Reverend Edward Powell's famous fly, which is always worth a go on the Dee.

As I held it to the light, Louis produced a small hook box. He unclasped it and revealed an innocuous tuft of orange fur. "The Reverend Michael Powell gave this to me. They're the last remaining fibres of his father's dyed otter fur. But there's not enough for me to tie a fly." Louis handed me the box for a closer look. Just what I wanted: fly-fishing history in my hands. And Louis' words to me? "Whatever you do, don't sneeze."

It had turned into a special day. The elegance of the double spey and four-fly cast had completely won me over. Now the history I had craved had been supplied by a fragment of fur. Then Steve yelled. He had persevered with the nymphs. But not those that he had tied last night. They had, regrettably, been held back for home. We thought he was into a salmon, the fish coaxed it to the shallows, it was transformed into a beautiful 2 lb grayling. Or thereabouts. It was 40 cm long and by the shape of the dorsal fin I wasn't surprised to see that this lady was a he. Another chap in drag in Llangollen.

Richard Baker