RH Fly Fishing

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

It’s a long time since I was sixteen, but one thing is still so vivid in my memory. My older brother was travelling, post uni, and my parents had taken me on a holiday to the west coast of Scotland, where they intended to tour from a base in a lonely, rented farmhouse right on the coast. Given the choice, I had elected to go fishing rather than suffer all that mileage in the back seat of the car every day. Plenty of small but obliging brown trout kept me fully occupied in the tiny pools and riffles of the burn as it cascaded down toward the sea. My supply of flies began to dwindle, but they were all scrounged from adults anyway, I still had plenty in hand for fishing the whole length of tumbling burn until I reached the first of four tidal pools down on the rocky shore, where I hoped I might encounter a sea-trout for the first time. By the third day, there I was, carefully casting my way along the first of those pools, when a soft, lilting Scottish voice nearly made me jump out

(The names of the Fluff Club members are pseudonyms in an attempt to be inclusive to all potential readership, everything else is true). "Accurately recalling an entire day of fishing is like trying to push smoke back down a chimney, so you settle on these specific moments" - John Gierach The Fluff Club last visited Holbury Lane Lakes back in episode 38, before that in 3, 14, 19, and 24. Just like in one of the previous visits, a storm had blown through and the heavy rain had coloured up the River Dun and all four 'lakes'. This day, though, dawned sparkling apart from the stiff breeze which brought quite a chill. It is a modern day scandal that being a grandparent has demands that all our ancestry were completely oblivious of. As an adult you do not get any warning of what is to come if you decide to have children. To get to the point, I was supposed to be doing some mid-range chauffeuring in the post meridian, so (fishing) time was of the essence. The thing ab

Flyboxes, the virtually essential piece of our fly fishing equipment, come in a variety of sizes and types. What goes into one is critical for success. The range of flies available to us is mind-boggling, to many begging the question: why would you need lots of different flies, different colours, styles, and sizes? To mimic the food that the quarry is naturally feeding on, which varies from water to water, season to season, plus other factors. In any given body of water there will be a combination of different food items available, such as mayfly nymphs and adult forms, chironomid larvae, pupae, and adults, sedge larvae, pupae and adults, water beetle larvae and adults, aquatic worms, alder fly larvae and adults, crane fly larvae, shrimps, hog lice, damsel and dragon fly larvae and adults, prey fish and eggs, lots of microscopic bugs too. This list isn’t exhaustive, but in addition there are the terrestrial insects that fall from the sky or out of bankside trees and vegetation, of

(In which the names of the Fluff Boys are pseudonyms, in hope of the widest appeal to the readers; everything else is factual). "Sqeezin' every drop of what's left of my time Jumpin' on tomorrow before it goes by" … - Blackberry Smoke It felt so good to get out of the sleeping house, I just don't know why we have to run the central heating on the 'solar flare' setting, nor why we have to have so many lights on at once that there are aeroplanes circling overhead, believing they are in a holding pattern over Heathrow. For now, though, I was escaping. Mild of late, and no overnight frost for the previous two days, a beautiful spring-like morning awaited. The Fluff Club last came to Sportfish/Haywards Farm in episode 28, more than a year ago; that was a toughie and might well have some bearing on our poor attendance today. Just three of the Fluff Boys pitched up: the Professor, Whytee, and the Inspector, although the latter had brought a &#

(In which the names of the Fluff Boys are pseudonyms in hopes of the widest appeal for the readers; everything else is factual) "Just remember, when you're over the hill, you begin to pick up speed." -Charles M. Schultz Moorhen nowadays shuts at the weekend, unless by prior arrangement, thus the gates were open for the Fluff Club members, as indeed they were in episodes 2, 15, 18, and 30. Considering we're in mid-January, we had enjoyed a mild week but there was a strong wind swirling angrily around, at times making casting hilariously inaccurate but also assisting those evil trees to engulf the fly of the unwary and careless. The water was very clear but it was virtually impossible to spot fish due to the choppy surface and the low light angle of the distant sun, although now we are past our shortest day so the sun is on its way closer to us again - things will get better! That's despite our politicians collectively trying to misguide us for their own en

The fourth time I booked a week’s fishing on the Rainbow Inn’s river beats that cascade down the flanks of the mountains and hurry away towards the mighty Irish loughs, I decided that for the final day I would challenge all I had learned and had been told, about the miles of fishing at my disposal. I decided on a whim to do a Gierach and hike upstream on my favourite stream just to see what was there; I had been told that the waters above the ancient stone bridge never yielded many fish and so visitors just didn’t bother with the top end, which was therefore pretty wild and unkempt. I had enjoyed another good week so I wasn’t bothered that the fishing might prove poor or even non-existent. I headed off after another great breakfast, climbing upwards gradually, the gradient steepening in the narrow valley. Above each short ascent there would be a small pool or glide before the next barrier of rocks, but all was shallow. Almost at the point of giving up and heading back down there op

Over to the dark side (In which the names of the Fluff Boys are pseudonyms but everything else factual, in hope of the widest appeal to readers) Flippin' 40! Didn't think about numbers of episodes when I began the blog. I just wish I had 40 comments or snippets of feed-back, it would be good to know what y'all think, what you enjoy, or don't. Any response is a positive thing. Unseasonably mild and nary a breeze, good cloud cover but some sunshine expected to break through later, all in all, a cracking day to leave Christmas behind and be out fishing. Bit of a poor showing from the Fluff Club but 'tis the season to be jolly, so perhaps some were suffering from overindulgence in the jollity; the cast for today's pantomime would be the Professor, Admiral, Jackdaw, Dell-boy, and Whytee; however, there were a lot of other anglers at the venue, the Meon Springs car-park almost full. Anyway, enough trah la la la lah, la lah lah lah for this year, roll on 2019.

I started to come round with the vibrations of bumping along, pitch black in some kind of vehicle, then was manhandled upright and dragged down flights of steps, the noise of slamming doors echoing through my groggy head, feet scraping along , then I was sitting. The lights blinded me when my guards took the bag off my head and untied me. In a concrete basement somewhere I faced the guy who I used to call my fishing buddy. “I’m really sorry about all this secrecy and security, but there is serious money at stake” said Brian. “You’d better explain” I replied, feeling dizzy and nauseous, “Here it is, in a nutshell” Brian settled back behind the desk, “I had an idea, drew up a detailed business plan, and trawled it around all the venture capitalists I could find in the City, and some Russian oligarchs too. One of the Russian connections agreed it could generate massive sales around the world quickly and they just threw massive amounts of money at it, most of it probably shady to s

(In which the participants are pseudonyms but all else factual, in an attempt to appeal to a wider audience) Earwig o again. Apologies for the hiatus, I didn't make the last Fluff Club outing (to the lovely Duncton Mill fishery, episodes 12 & 31), due to circumstances conspiring against me. You know, there really should be a Government Warning when you think about having children, otherwise we continue to be ignorant of and oblivious to, the real peril to come, arising in the form of grandchildren. I would like to have gone to that Duncton Mill outing, not least because Moneypenny and the Engineer took part, they rarely feature in these chronicles. Anyhow, back to the now. The Fluff Boys (and girl) assembled at Woodington for the annual competition, gathering around the crackling chimnera, the cold air alive with aromas of frying bacon and eggs, steaming mugs of teas and coffees. The contestants were the Professor, Admiral, Sailor, Headmistress, Dell-boy, Rodney, Whyt

(In which the names of the Fluff Club crew are pseudonyms, but everything else is real). The four mature 'lakes' and the stretch of the River Dun which wends through them make this probably Hampshire's most beautiful small stillwater fishery. With the additional colours from autumns cloak it looked stunning, despite the sheets of rain doing their best to obscure everything. The Fluff Club last visited Holbury Lane Lakes in episode24, and before that in 3, 14, and 19. The rain hammering on my roof woke me before the alarm rang; the country lanes en route to the fishery ran like rivers in places, standing water everywhere, I wondered if anyone else would venture out. Even though I've come to expect October to be stormy for at least a handful of its days, our seasons have definitely gone topsy-turvy; nesting Coots at Chalk Springs last month, and just yesterday on the tidal Itchen there were a pair of Black Swans (yes, the Australian ones) with a little, grey cygnet