RH Fly Fishing

There’s no doubting this time of year is shopping-centric. My problem is I can’t be in a shop/store for more than one and a half hours before I can feel my spirit leaving my body, the defences fall, and the black dog gets his opportunity. Dearly Beloved is well aware of this, and went to perform the ‘big shop’ leaving me in the car-park, stereo kicking out tunes. I watched the punters coming and going. All of them looked haunted, harrowed, harassed, pressurised. There were no smiles, no signs of happiness. It got me thinking: Christmas used to be about the birth of Christianity, even though large chunks of it are purely pagan (e.g. trees brought into the dwelling, gifts/offerings, the winter solstice, magic i.e. Santa/elves/flying reindeer, and so on). It’s not like that now, the dark forces have won this day: avarice and greed, marshalled and directed by the high street corporates; Mammon once more looking for profits. It doesn’t seem as bad across the big pond, but then Christm

(… in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms, in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, attempting to attain the widest readership. Everything else is factual.) Fifty! The half-century … who would have thought that?! “Everyone should believe in something. I believe I’ll go fishing”. – Henry D. Thoreau. It’s that time of year again: Wessex FDG’s annual John Hardeley Memorial, held at Woodington Trout Fishery. When Whytee drove into the car park there were six inches of the River Blackwater flowing through it, into the field beyond. We’ve had a lot of rain recently, exacerbated by the rainstorm last night. Still, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. Like a good boy scout: I was prepared. The day actually turned out much better than the weather forecast, the showers went elsewhere and the temperature climbed into double digits for a change, just. Our hosts, Jim and Sian, were waiting for the Fluff Boys and Fluff Girl to ap

So, (my English teacher will be spinning in her grave after that start), my first serious attempt at Grayling fishing of winter 2019/2020 brings me to an Association water on the River Itchen, just south of Winchester. Now, several miles further downstream, on the Lower Itchen Fishery, there are some monster Grayling, even some members of the Grayling Society have seen them, yet none of the really big ones ever seem to want to play ball. Furthermore, about half a mile from today’s beat there is a carrier where I’ve seen some eye-widening Gs fleeing my clumsy footsteps – so hope raged in my heart, drowning out the traffic noise from the M3. I tackled up a ten-foot rod for an attempt at Euro-nymphing, heading downstream to fish back up; [Rule: single fly, upstream dry or nymph only]. Have to say it was a bit of an obstacle course, despite some clearance efforts in order to put up a new stock fence. Why is it that dog rose and brambles can be so hateful? When they’re not trying to

Brian, long-time fishing buddy, and I haven’t fished together much these past couple of years, the old enemy, stuff, always getting in the way. When schedules allowed this particular opportunity, it didn’t take long to decide the venue. John O’Gaunt trout fishery is our ‘spiritual’ home of fly fishing. It’s where I first cast a fly in England, and subsequently, where I first introduced B to the sport. That’s not the only reason: it is a very beautiful place, and apart from birdsong and the occasional splash of a fish, it can be absolutely silent. Mr Purse keeps the place tidy and almost manicured. Okay, there is very little in the way of facilities: the ‘gents’ is a patch of gravel screened by old fence panels, the water supply comes from a rain butt, and if you fancy a warm drink, you’d better have brought a flask. They don’t advertise, relying on word of mouth; Purse knows that if people have a good day, they will tell their mates about it. Good fishing for quality fi

(… in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, attempting to attain the widest readership.) “Fishing provides that connection with the whole living world. It gives you the opportunity of being totally immersed, turning back into yourself in a good way. A form of communion with levels of yourself that are deeper than the ordinary self”. – Ted Hughes Duncton Mill is a beautifully matured fishery set in a picturesque vale. Usually on a membership basis it does allow non-member day tickets in the colder months, hence today’s venue for a Fluff Club outing. The fishery was the scene for episodes 12 and 31, today was yet another cold one: last night it had dropped to just one degree c, with a forecast high of nine, but a dry day, at least. I arrived late, having collected Dodgy from Southampton docks following a short cruise celebrating his wife’s birthday; he was my guest for the second episode in a row. The In

The Demoiselle. Back when I was turning from coarse fishing to fly fishing, I caught my (still) PB Rainbow, from Dever Springs. I was yet to take up the fly-tying hobby*, so my fly supply was modest to say the least; the one that did the business that day was a ‘Demoiselle’, supplied by Rod Box I believe, out Winchester way.   That event remains vividly clear in my memory: I was fishing Spring ‘lake’ at a spot close by the road entrance, in the corner where a willow overhung the inlet pipe bearing water from the sparkling River Dever. It looked such a fishy spot I was sure there must be fish present, lurking in the willow’s cover or beneath the slow vortexes of loose, floating weed. A little side cast to my left dropped the fly into a clear patch, and once the fly sank from my sight, I began a twitchy retrieve. A bow-wave appeared to my right, zooming past in front of me and parting the drifting weed rafts, then my line locked solid. A serious struggle commenced with the trout pu

Taking shape, at last! The keen-eyed will eventually work out that the pics don’t always match the narrative; that’s because when I’m fishing (a) I don’t always have a camera with me, and (b) I’m fishing (duh!) To date, this blog consists of the Fluff Club chronicles, originally only on the Fly Fishing Forum, albeit pasted in large lumps, to which I’ve latterly added small, published pieces. For the future, the FC episodes will continue (usually monthly), also the short stories, when I have both time and the muse, plus the odd editorial or supplement. The stated aim is to help share and spread the love of fly fishing and fly tying, so future posts might include some patterns for various variants and vagaries. Hopefully, you’ll stick with it. Finally, please feel free to comment or to suggest improvements. The people that know about these things (blogs/blogging) suggest regular posts is the way to go - two or three times a week – but creativity is a barrier to that, due to al

(… in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, attempting to obtain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comments the reader cares to make. Thanks). [about trout fishing] “… you don’t have to be very good at it to have a great time doing it. This capacity to be at peace with your mediocrity is high on the list of secrets of happiness. It’s also a sure sign of advanced and diminished ambition, the sum of which frequently passes for wisdom.” Wow, we’ve had some rain this past week; today’s forecast was for yet more showers. Still, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. We splashed down at Chalk Springs to find new huttage and Darren no longer the guv’nor, according to the bespectacled youth who took the spondoolicks. Just the Professor and Whytee to represent the Fluff Club, but Whytee had brought a guest, Dodgy, so the fishery thought there were three from the Guild. Oh, how the m

I cannot remember the very first time I noticed her, but from that moment I couldn’t get her out of my head, she seemed different somehow. The vitality, the quickness, effortless grace, her very spirit, made her stand out from her companions. Time passed; I didn’t always see her, but I always looked for her. I felt somewhat guilty to be watching her graceful movements; I tried to make sure she didn’t notice me when I stared, mesmerised. In time, she grew more curvaceous, and dwelt more and more in my dreams. Came the day that I realised this longing simply had to be dealt with. It was now or never. I was drawn once more to the place I most often saw her, and there she was, dancing in the soft light. She was so alluring, yet I kept to the shadows, confidence deserting me, unsure of what to do next. My very being knew that I would only get one chance, that her beauty would always attract rivals. I watched for what seemed an eternity, then she moved closer, facing in my direction

(... in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, attempting to obtain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comment the reader cares to make; alternatively complete the 'rate this' element. Thanks.) "As the angler looks back, he thinks less of individual captures than of the scenes in which he fished" - Grey of Fallodon. Today's venue was a late substitution, because the scheduled one was suffering from extremely low water levels the Professor had suggested switching to John O'Gaunt's instead. The latter suffered a serious problem with water quality more than a year ago, but rumour had it that there had been a complete recovery: we would see about that in due course. The Fluff Club previously visited in episodes 20, 23, 32 and 35. It is also a matter of fact that the place was the scene of my conversion from coarse to fly, back in the nineties. The summer's he

I had been fishing for almost six hours now and had just about walked the whole circumference of the moorland reservoir. Conditions had seemed to be perfect: warmish, a light breeze, overcast sky, and the water lightly tinged with peat but still clear. I had been through my fly boxes and had used up most of my spool of tippet, with absolute zero to show for my efforts. My frustration had been building for a while, eroding concentration. As a result, my casting and fishing were suffering badly. With my car in sight again, I became irritated, annoyed at myself, so I sat on a stump for a while to collect my scattered thoughts and give myself a stiff talking to. I ate and drank the last of my supplies, then “Right” I said to myself “You drove miles to get here, get your head straight, there’s less than an hour of light left. Start again. Concentrate hard. Come on!”. Just then I noticed a horse I passed an hour ago was standing behind me, watching silently, tail flicking flies. I

(In which the names are all pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive as possible, in order to attain the widest readership; everything else is true.) A right old hiatus, eh? Maybe I should call these blogs ‘intermittent’ rather than ‘continuing’ adventures. The fact is, the last two scheduled outings were called off: firstly, the fishery announced it had closed down (again), then in the second month only two Fluff Boys were available to make the trip to Farmoor, so they cancelled on the eve. Anyroadup, today five of us, plus Mrs Sailor, pitched up at the excellent Manningford T.F., last featured in episode 36, and before that in 7 and 13. Having driven through a deluge I was pleased to see it changing to lighter precipitation when I arrived in the car park; the rain ceased altogether by the time the Professor, Admiral, Sailor (plus one) and Whytee were ticketed and tackled-up. At that moment the Inspector came along the bank to greet us, casually swinging his bass bag contain

The little country inn I had booked for my fishing holiday was lovely. Nestling in the moors, there were miles of tumbling streams and a few small lakes available to me on the local ‘passport’ system. My room was very comfortable and the BBEM was just right – plus they provided a packed lunch, too. Every day I would strike out with directions to a new water. The surrounding countryside was glorious, the weather kind, but not so the fishing gods. All I managed were very infrequent wild brown trout, the biggest not quite the length of my hand. After each long day I returned to the inn’s bar to have a reviving beer or two before getting ready for dinner. The only other angling guest, a chap who had left the Emerald Isle a long time ago to seek his fortune, would appear a little after me, to hand the chef a brace of beautiful trout, each around the two-and-a-half-pound mark, much to my envy. I would engage him in conversation and we would have the craic, him well versed in the blarne

(In which the names are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, in order to obtain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comment the reader cares to make; alternatively, please complete the ‘rate this’ element of the page. Thanks.) “… breathless and steaming from the endless uphill exertion that is my life.” – Bill Bryson, ‘Neither Here Nor There’   Consider the amazing technological, science-driven advances of the last two-hundred years, leading to huge improvements in fishing rods and lines, (reels not so much), culminating where the artificial fly may be effortlessly cast, via an elegant loop, out over the quiet waters to deceive the quarry. A beautiful and inherently simple means with which to catch a fish; the very epitome of recreational skill and relaxed simplicity … until the angler takes up that rod and shatters the idyll, tearing down the illusion. Seven of such descended on Chiphall Lake fishery, the previous Fluff Club visits we

(In which the names are all pseudonyms, in an effort to be as inclusive as possible in order to attain the widest readership; everything else is true.)   I have two weather ‘apps’ on my iPad, the Met Office and the BBC. It’s quicker to alter the location on the BBC one, so foolishly that’s the one I relied on when I awoke, neither jacket nor fleece would be required. Car loaded, sound system set to 11, I followed the sat nav’s directions north towards Barn Elms Trout Fishery, blue skies overhead. Living on the south coast, nearly everything is north.   The last time the Fluff Club visited this fishery was for episode 8, so it has been a while. I wasn’t exactly expecting a cast of thousands to muster for this latest epic, given that only three of us made it back then. Guess what? Three again! The three attendees tried hard not to take it personally; perhaps it’s horrendous halitosis, brain-damaging body odour, or something else that the other Fluff Boys just daren’t mention? T