TRM was recently asked if we could find a suitable new home for the flies below:
We are pleased to report that another keen fly angler has been found in London who would love to add them to his collection. Our concern was that someone would try to use them as they would be lucky to last one cast. (In those “good ol’ days”, the purist Bruno used beeswax and pine pitch on fly-tying thread.)
Hatepe anglers will enjoy the dry humour in his reply when he commented:
Thank you very much Ross. Just saw your facebook group – lovely photos of the snow. It seems from the posts that women are more accepted in fly fishing circles now. One night (in the early 70’s) when fishing in the mouth of the Hinemaiaia my mother overheard someone say “There’s a bloody woman in the rip!”.
The previous post on the Red Spinner fly shop at Hatepe is repeated below:
Red Spinner tackle shop?
Based on the questions we receive in TRM reception, we operate some sort of local fishy information office. Last week an inmate was keen to find out more about the Red Spinner tackle shop at Hatepe. So this is for him. I vaguely remember the shop is tucked away in the back of the residential holiday homes on the lake edge in Hatape – see image above.
So we googled “Bruno Kemble” – the original “proprietor” and discovered the following entertaining descriptions from internet facebook responses back in 2004.
Images on right of the Hinemaiaia from TRM library:
Yep, I knew him quite well. He & his wife operated a tackle shop at Hatepe, alongside the Hinemiaia river. They catered for fly fishing only, tied their own flies & sold them from the glass fronted counter. All flies were handled with tweezers & handed over in a paper bag! He insisted that they were not to be man- handled prior to purchase.
How they managed to tie the flies without touching them is beyond me!
Bruno was an Indian Army relic, very British in his ways & demeanour.
He was quite a character, strong with his thoughts & words & interesting.
Gin at noon, & a healthy supply for the rest of the day was the norm.
Will have a think on some of the stories & if they would be printable here!
RED SPINNER at Hatepe
TRM recently corresponded with an English historian who was seeking more info on Bruno Kemball of the Red Spinner tackle shop in Hatepe. He was fascinated by some old dry flies he discovered still in their original cellophane wrappers that displayed exquisite workmanship – far too good to use for fishing. SInce then I found the following old report which may stir some memories…
SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed is the manager of everything at TRM except fishing, You are warned – She cannot resist providing convincing, but often wrong, advice to unwary anglers. She might be wrong, but is never in doubt.) is often asked about where to buy fishing tackle, such as new rods in particular, as anglers have a habit of breaking them regularly?
In Turangi we are spoilt in the choice of freshwater fishing tackle shops.
The biggest and most well known is Sporting Life in the CBD (?) Mall. They have the largest selection and their reputation is well known by anglers due to regular informative fishing reports by their team video reports, and their own in-house expert fly tier.
Second is the most historic tackle shop in NZ (?) on Taupahi Road – Creel Tackle shop. This tiny shop reeks of character and is now more popular as a cafe with a huge history associated with many locally famous anglers fishing the Tongariro River.
But today’s report is a 1985 article composed about another local tackle shop which most have forgotten about. The Red Spinner was located at Hatepe settlement on the Hinemaiaia River.
Image above is the shop now situated in the fishing village away from the main entrance road and now used as holiday accommodation. So I googled Red Spinner to find the following article:
FOR THIS ANGLER, THE AROMAS OF A TACKLE SHOP ARE RICHLY EVOCATIVE
April 08, 1985
Fishing is generally considered a malodorous sport, but to an angler, even the finest delicatessen or bakery fails to offer fragrances as tantalizing as those found inside a good tackle shop. The delicious smoky scent of fly-rod varnish or the satisfying redolence of the beeswax and pine pitch used on fly-tying thread are as appealing as the aroma of a fine cheese or a delicate pastry.
For me, tackle-shop scents rekindle bright memories of the shop in the small Pacific Northwest city where I was born. My father often took me there, and I looked forward to those visits almost as much as I did to the fishing itself.
The shop was large and dark and drafty, and it always had a strong smell of new leather from the belts and hunting boots on display. Along one wall was a heavy glass case, trimmed in wood, with sliding doors that opened only on the side where the clerks stood. The case held all kinds of gleaming treasures: handsome fly reels, shining steel knives, compasses in leather cases and large, compartmented wooden trays brimming with colorful trout flies. I spent many pleasant moments with my face pressed against the side of the case, admiring its contents, listening to the quiet fishing talk of the men who always seemed to be in the store, and breathing the rich, pungent odor of new leather.
Whenever I smell tea I think of one of the most unusual tackle shops I ever saw, a little place called the Red Spinner in the settlement of Hatepe on the eastern shore of Lake Taupo in New Zealand. It contained only a bare counter, a single shelf with a few fly reels and a pair of wooden chests with shallow drawers. The usual tackle-shop scents were absent; this place smelled only of tea.
The proprietor, whose name I later learned was Bruno Kemball, was standing behind the counter when I entered. I had been searching for a locally manufactured version of a famous English fly reel, and after glancing at the meager stock I asked Kemball, without much hope, if he had one. He glared at me and, drawing himself up, said in a frosty British accent, “Young man, I learned long ago never to compromise on English quality. I advise you to do the same. I carry only genuine English-made reels.”
Properly chastened, I asked if he might recommend some flies for the Tongariro River, where I was bound. Without a word he went quickly to one of the wooden chests and opened a drawer. Inside were some of the most beautiful trout flies I had ever seen, arranged in meticulous order on a bed of velvet. “You’ll need two of these,” he said, using a pair of tweezers to pick up a pair of the flies and place them carefully in a small cellophane envelope as if they were rare postage stamps. He opened another drawer and repeated the process, continuing until at last he handed me half a dozen cellophane envelopes, each containing two flies. “For the Tongariro,” he said.
I paid him, mumbled my thanks and departed, feeling as though I had just left No. 10 Downing Street.
A day or two later, while fishing on the Tongariro, I mentioned the experience to another angler. “Let me tell you about the first time I went to the Red Spinner,” he said. “Old Bruno was busy, so I thought I’d save time and help myself. I went over to the chest, opened a drawer and was just reaching in for a fly when Bruno caught me across the wrist with a karate chop. ‘I’ll thank you to keep your bloomin’ ‘ands off my flies!’ he says. ‘Next time use the bloody tweezers; that’s what they’re there for!’ “
I’ve sampled the atmosphere of many other tackle shops, including some very famous ones. Each had its own personality, its own satisfying scents and tantalizing wares, and I’ve never been in one I didn’t like. But fishing has become a very big business in recent years; as a result, the shops, the salesmen and the sport have become less personal, and some of the charm is missing.
But the shops smell pretty much as they always have, and whenever I enter one and recognize those old familiar scents I feel something of the excitement of a small boy with his face pressed against a glass case full of gleaming treasures, breathing the rich scent of new leather and listening to fishing talk. At least that never seems to change.