The Continuing Adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode 44

(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? The Admiral was rigging up when I pulled into the car park, we were soon joined by the Professor.

 I paid for a four fish ticket in the well-appointed lodge, stepped across the portal and decided to follow the wind down the fishery, in the belief that Rainbows tend to do the same. There are four named ‘waters’ although it’s really only one excavation: four bodies of water (‘lakes’), chalk stream water and spring fed, joined by channels, with footbridges giving access to the varied banks and the isthmus. I pondered on the eclectic names, briefly bemused at who actually came up with ‘Car Park’, ‘Diawl Bach’, ‘Roxy’ and ‘Lily’ (clockwise), and whether there was alcohol or substance abuse involved in the naming. To get a mental image of the lay-out just imagine a three-year-old’s drawing of a four-leaf clover.  I walked along the isthmus to where ‘Roxy’ turns right into ‘Lily’ and there I spotted a couple of moving fish, one of them a Blue Trout, so presumably it would have seen a myriad of fly patterns chucked its way. The windward end of ‘Roxy’ looked unfishable because of a twenty feet broad belt of weed, branches, and other detritus accumulated along it by the cold wind from the east. Yes, cold. This cover probably sheltered all those fish that had followed said wind, unreachable.

 Scattered about the fishery were Mallard, nesting Swans, Great-Crested and Little Grebes, Coots, and Moorhen, whilst songbirds performed their arias in bushes and trees, and a pair of Red Kites kept watch overhead. Later, at the bird and fowl council, I’m sure one or two of them would remark how cold and miserable Whytee appeared. I started fishing a ‘Wossname’, confidence waning when I realised it wasn’t working any magic this time. Then I remembered that on our previous visit lures did not produce, those fish that did feed took PTNs, Hare’s Ear and other small nymph patterns, so I switched to a black ‘Muskins’, size 12 I think. After a couple of casts I managed to locate the Blue again and dropped a cast a few feet ahead of it, letting the fly free-fall a couple of feet before I started my retrieve; the Blue began to follow, at a distance. Suddenly, there was a flash of white in front of the Blue as an unseen Rainbow appeared from the depths and snapped at the fly … fish on! After putting up a good account of itself I drew it into the waiting landing net; a shade under two pounds. I had noticed a couple of other trout during the scrap, but I was feeling colder and colder, the thin sunlight had done nothing to warm the morning, so I had to head for the lodge to warm up with a hot cuppa. Three other anglers were inside, doing the same, it was a bitter wind indeed.

 When I ventured outside again, the Admiral was fishing the bay where I had caught. Most of the other anglers present were fishing ‘Diawl Bach’, suspecting there might well be a good reason for that I decided to join the throng. On the first available staging I soon realised there was mainly weed in front of me, but only after the Muskins was snatched by a malevolent tree which pounced on my back-cast without warning. At the far side, near that old lodge or whatever it is, there is a small bay, the bottom shelving deeply away into gloom. I paused a while, sure enough there were at least two fish moving, the paler one obviously ‘on the fin’. I re-tied the ‘Wossname’, but it was totally blanked again. This time I tried a brown ‘Muskins’, a size smaller, and with a vibrant orange in its thorax. A dark shadow hove into view and appeared to look interested but was beaten to it by a different fish again coming from the dark depths to nail the fly. Another good fight ensued until I was able to net it, my best of the day, a two-pound ten-ounce Rainbow. Next, I managed to lose the ‘Muskins’ to another delinquent, antisocial tree. On a whim I tied on a small ‘Biscuit Blob’ to sink into the depths with no retrieve, that is, fished ‘static’. Nada. I persevered for a few casts, and a fish did appear as I retrieved slowly to re-cast, but kept a respectable distance behind the fly. The paler fish was still about, appearing then disappearing again. Time to try the ’Limit Damsel’. The fish showed some interest and followed for three consecutive casts; on the fourth I expected it to get bored, but instead it suddenly accelerated hard to engulf the fly, my strike connected but its speed brought it out of the water to tail-walk along the surface. It tried two or three more athletic jumps, running hard, putting up a genuinely worrying struggle to escape. I was thrilled and relieved to finally draw it to my net, a stunning Golden Trout, bright and heavily spotted, making two-pounds two-ounces at the scales. Three up, time for lunch, so I headed towards my car, where I met the Professor, who had caught two. He told me the first came to a Yellow Dancer that had fallen out of his tackle bag while he was tackling-up and he’d thought that might be a good omen, as it proved, but just the once. He took his second on a PTN variant that we tied one evening recently, with an orange dubbing thorax. He had been right around ‘Car Park’, ‘Diawl Bach’ and half of ‘Roxy’ without seeing many fish. I thought that might be due to the wind chill factor, it had certainly got to me!

 I went to see if the Admiral was going to join us in the lodge, to find him winding up his line in readiness to do just that, a trout lying in the grass beside him. Apparently, the trout took his CW when it was lying on the lake bed completely passive, while he was sorting out a couple of rogue coils of line on his reel. A new tactic that I really must try next time I’m using a Cat’s Whisker.

 Over lunch we chatted with the fishery’s lady owner, mainly about the Brexit balls-up and how it has exposed most of our politicians to be nothing more than ignorant, greedy charlatans, completely out of touch with reality and the British people. The press and media fared no better, feeding us whatever pap they can make money from. Having put the world to rights it was time to re-join the fray.

 The fishery’s regulars were still around ‘Diawl Bach’, save for two who had already bagged and left. I went to the platform/staging from which you can reach the deeper middle of the ‘lake’, pleased no-one else had taken it. Here I trialled my ‘Blackberry Smoke’ nymphy thing, but sadly to no avail. (It’s mainly purple, and yes, the name is a tribute to the band). Cold, I thought about returning to the little bay in the corner, where there was some respite from the wind, but first I thought I should tie the ‘Limit Damsel’ on again, for one last cast here. Wallop! The Blue speedster led me a merry dance, aptly fitting the reputation for Blue Tout to go ‘loony toons’ berserk when hooked. This one just didn’t have the mass for a longer fight, being just under two pounds. Four in the bass, I began to think of the drive home in a nice, warm car; lesson learned about not having a jacket or fleece in reserve, whatever the BBC say.

 I found the Admiral with the Professor at the swim where I started. The former had completed his brace ticket using a BFD variant I had demonstrated on a tying evening a month or so ago, and he was starting to take down his gear. The Professor had caught a three-pound Brown trout just beforehand, it had appeared suddenly from below to swallow the fly that a Blue was actually following! Isn’t it funny that despite the super-clarity of the water today, there were plenty of fish holding deeper, unseen and easy for the angler to overlook?

 I didn’t hang around; the Professor was still fishing after the Admiral and I had departed, but the fish showed no further interest.