The Hut which is listed
If a week is a lifetime in politics, a fortnight in fishing is a long 14 days. When Ben, who is the brains, and considerably more, behind this blog, called me and bleated that his man-flu was so severe that he couldn’t make it fishing I sprinted to the nearest pub, and racked my brains as to who, at such short notice, might fancy a day’s fishing over work. We had had, two weeks ago, an extraordinary day’s fishing and with the Mayfly season upon us and we were expecting another fruitful day. Safe in the knowledge that Ben’s man-flu would either turn out to be fatal or, as I daren’t say, incurable, I invited our mutual friend, Dom Makin, the Dog Father, to come along. Dom is a keen fisherman but it was only when I said that he might have miss Ben’s funeral in order to make it, and he said “no problem”, I knew he was serous about fishing.
The Lower Beat is one long wide piece of river, when there's no hatch it can be daunting
Dom has, for a number of years, been a great friend of both Ben and mine and, true to form, managed to reschedule his day job so as to ensure he was only slightly late for a very early lunch in Stockbridge. The Boot it was!
The Boot, many an afternoon has been 'lost' here
I had plumped for my new routine of getting up at 5am but, having left home by 06.00. found that, on arrival, access to the river, was closed. Two weeks ago, Ben and I had crashed Phil, the river keeper’s, cottage before the gate was open, hoping for a cheeky bacon sarnie and jokingly Phil told us to bugger off until the river officially opened. Two minutes later we were following him down the drive to the water’s edge to have up of tea. I’d love to tell you he made Ben and I walk the plank but I’d be lying. I refused, and as he pushed Ben off the plank into the puddle I knew that, for once, Ben wasn’t out of his depth. Phil, and his father David, represent the best in river keepers and it’s only when you have had the privilege of spending time with them that you truly appreciate that they are not just funny, they’re also not as funny as they look!
I arrived on the river shortly after nine am only to be greeted by one of our fellow syndicate rmembers bemoaning the fact that he had broken his rod. It gets worse; he set up his spare rod which, on the first cast, also broke, so headed of the Orvis, where he purchase a new rod. Orvis, for the record, offer a 25 year guarantee on all new rods. When Peter, on casting with the third rod of the day, heard the top section of his rod snap, first cast, I thanked the Lord, and Orvis, for their guarantee. He then proceeded to catch several trout with the said replacement (fourth) rod, so well done Orvis.
The weather forecast was as good as one might have wished for, having been unseasonably poor for the whole of May. As I was driving down the temperature crept into the early teens and with Hampshire just the right side of the weather forecast, things were looking good. Cloudy but warm and with the potential for some rain is, in my humble opinion, a great combination.
It was clear from the start that the Mayfly were not hatching in any numbers and, after the Hawthorn, which had appeared in Biblical proportions over the last two weeks, it was an entomological likelihood that the fish might deviate from the norm.
Had you seen the fish, two weeks ago, gorge themselves to the point where their stomachs were so distended you might have assumed that they would lunge at our flies with gay abandon, I am only sorry that if you were expecting a review of our riverbank exploits that mirrors the events of a fortnight ago you’ll be disappointed. They say, and “they” are the old, wise, great and sometimes pissed, that if the Hawthorn hatch is prolific, the mayfly hatch won’t be. I fished olives because they were hatching and I caught fish as a result.
Guy observing the rules, observing mind you, that's all!
I fished flies that I believe matched the hatch. Having showed my fellow guests what I believe to be traditional dry flies that might rise a trout, I could nor escape the feeling that size or ease of catch somehow reminded me that perhaps we all love, rather too much, big hatches of flies, like the hawthorn or mayfly forgetting that when you tie on a size 18 grey duster, and rise the only rising fish in your swim, if feels different, and special. If you’re reading this and don’t quite get it, give it chance, you won’t regret it…..
Guy with a good brown caught in the fast water on the bend down from the bridge
The afternoon was dead, as far a rising fish were concerned but it was a great reminder that fishing is about the un-catchable not the slaughter. Emerging olives and tiny dry flies were a beautiful reminder that the harder it gets, the better if feels. By the time I was thinking about leaving, mayfly were coming off the water but not a trout rose to one whilst I was watching. This time in a couple of weeks.....
One of Dom's charges! The Dogfather's work is never done!
Rounding of the day with a very fat brown trout
Cheers Guy, excellent bit of writing, please do it again soon!!
