Ah, the River Wye—proper crown jewel of Welsh fishing, if you ask me. Stretching over 200 miles, this beauty starts up in the Cambrian Mountains, winds through Powys,

 Herefordshire, and Monmouthshire like a lazy serpent, then finally shakes hands with the Severn. And let me tell ya, the water’s so clear you could count the pebbles at 30 feet—assuming you’re not distracted by the trout sipping mayflies off the surface.

Now, here’s the thing: the Wye’s got more personalities than my ex-wife, thanks to its tributaries. The Lugg, Arrow, and Monnow? Cracking spots for grayling and wild browns, especially if you fancy sneaking away from the crowds. Funny enough, some of my best days were on the Monnow, knee-deep in riffles, pulling out grayling that’d make a grown man weep.

Speaking of beats, the Wye’s sliced into over 60 sections, each with its own quirks. The Upper Wye? Wild browns up to 3 pounds, though good luck getting ‘em to rise when they’re feeling finicky. And them sea trout? Proper moody buggers—show up in summer like they own the place. Dry flies and nymphs work a treat here, but come winter, swap to streamers unless you fancy freezing your fingers off for nothing.

Hay-on-Wye’s the postcard-perfect stretch—grayling galore, and sea trout so thick in summer you’d think they’re queuing for something. Builth Wells, though? That’s where the salmon lads congregate, especially come autumn. Wide water there, so chuck them wet flies or tubes and pray the rain holds off. Rhayader’s my personal nemesis—fast rapids, deep pools, and browns that’ll outsmart you nine times out of ten. My mate Dave reckons it’s cursed after losing a 3-pounder there last season, but he’s just sore about it.

Lower Wye’s where the tourists flock—salmon, sea trout, and the occasional brown that hasn’t wised up yet. Slow and wide, perfect for launching those big flies without snagging the opposite bank.

Now, species-wise, the Wye’s like a pick ‘n’ mix. Wild browns run smaller here, but the grayling? Oh, you’ll find proper donkeys pushing 3 pounds. Salmon start showing their faces late November, and sea trout? Summer’s their party season. And don’t even get me started on the barbel and pike—locals swear by the stretch near Hereford for pike that’d eat your dog if you let ‘em.

Technique? Match the hatch or go home. Summer’s all about dry flies—mayfly, caddis, you name it. Winter? Streamers or stay in the pub. Nymphing’s deadly year-round, especially with a two-fly setup (or three, if you’re feeling fancy). Just watch the water levels—after a downpour, the Wye turns into a washing machine. Stick to the banks unless you fancy a swim.

Licenses? Don’t be daft—check the rules before you wet a line. Seasons change, beats vary, and the bailiffs here don’t mess about.

Right, that’s my two pence. Grab a pint at the Red Lion after—tell ‘em the Wye sent you. And if you hook a monster, well, spare a thought for poor Dave in Rhayader.