Water falls. Trout thrive.
Our farm is a staircase of cold spring water — it enters at the top, drops through every raceway by gravity alone, and leaves as clean as the fish it raised.
It starts as a cold vein in the hill.
The spring runs at eight degrees summer and winter — the one thing a trout will not negotiate. No pumps, no pipes under pressure: the whole farm is laid out downhill from this point.
Long channels, always moving.
The water steps down through concrete raceways — each one a running river in miniature. Constant flow carries oxygen in and waste out, the way a stream would.
Fourteen months from egg to plate.
Rainbow for the table, brook trout for the connoisseurs, brown trout back to the streams. Nothing is hurried — cold water grows slow, firm flesh.
From the raceway to your kitchen.
On sales days the fish leave the water an hour before they leave the gate. The smokehouse runs on beech, slowly, the old way.
A rod, a pond, and no licence needed.
The fishing pond sits at the bottom of the cascade. Borrow a rod, catch your dinner, and we will clean it — or smoke it while you wait.
Reserve fish or a rod.
Write what you need — kilos for the kitchen, a smoked batch for the weekend, or a pond afternoon for the family.