RH Fly Fishing

  Idly killing some SI time, I hauled out a bunch of ‘The Angler’ magazine dating from 1949 to 1953, given to me years ago by a former colleague. In the September 1953 one, I came across a scrap of paper, presumably a page marker, on which someone had drawn a fly. I read the article: “Our Friend Thymallus” by one Maurice Hartley. The text mentioned the ‘Red Tag’ being a lady killer on the River Ure, Yorkshire, later also mentioning the efficacy of ‘Sturdy’s Fancy’ as well. What jumped off the page at me, however, vis the Ure and Red Tag, was “20 years ago” … “My father and I that day took 75 fish, averaging from half to three-quarters of a pound each, and returned to the water almost as many more.” Talk about the good old days!   I looked closely at the sketch before turning to reference works from Taff Price, Malcolm Greenhalgh, and even Mike Harding. These noted the aforementioned patterns were used in both dry and wet fly fishing, but I thought immediately that for the fish

  There is something so special, magical even, about fishing a small river, totally surrounded by natural, wild things, immersed in the cool water, listening to its whispered poetry. You hope to encounter the jewel-bright creatures of this different element, immersing yourself physically (even if only knee deep) into a world we know so little of.   Due to this cursed Covid-19 curtailing my fishing and keeping me indoors, this is a short account, from my log, of my first visit to this particular beat of the little Hampshire chalk-fed river, conditions were near perfect: warm with light cloud cover, but with river levels gradually dropping as the summer advanced. It didn’t start well, however; on only the fifth cast with the brand-new three weight rod, the tip section broke! No contacts whatsoever, no ‘ping’ from a bead-head or errant twig, only light casting strokes, a manufacturing fault (that was soon put right), but which caught me out in that moment with the realisation that I

This is a short account of a trip back in 2009, sourced from my fishing log once again. My damsels box   My fishing buddy, Brian’ had not been to Avon Springs, Durrington before. There are two ‘lakes’ and a short beat on the chalkstream waters of the upper Hampshire Avon. A day ticket allows fishing on both ponds, but the smaller one (back then, anyway) is dry fly or nymph only; alternatively, you could elect to have a day on the river. I set up with an intermediate outfit, plus a midge tip floater for an alternative. At first it seemed very quiet and the margins were ultra-clear, but then we began to see odd swirls out in the middle; I headed for the far end, casting into the wind, fishing blind because of the surface chop, but it wasn’t too long before I had a take and played out my first Rainbow, just two ounces under five pounds. Great start! I was trying a new Damsel pattern, with green glass bead eyes, yet despite catching the fish with it I had a slight doubt, thinking

  Okay, it is a tad biblical for a title, but that’s what comes to mind alongside plague and pestilence. The latter is a reference to a rat, which has no trouble evading the dogs. We’ll see.   Ed 7 gave a flavour of my tackle tinkering intended tasks. I can report that there has been some progress: all reels checked, some lines swapped over, leaders re-tied (including a blitz on braided loop connections), lanyard and equipment thereon remodelled, bits n’ pieces boxes similarly, and the fishing vest (which is part of me) also revisited and reloaded as required. The rods and landing nets are all clean and hunky dory.   And so it comes to pass that I’ve made a start on that numero uno, the big one: the investigation of the fly boxes and their contents; exhaustive detail, fine-tooth comb, under the microscope, you name it. So far, I’m three boxes in. The ‘furry’ one (snakes, mohicans, zonkers) passed with flying colours, an open and shut case, so to speak. The other lot,  how