Off the Log #6 Small river cool

 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 hadn’t got a spare rod in the car! I turned the air blue, so angry with myself. Thereafter, the traffic made the journey home to get a replacement rod twice as long as normal. I very nearly didn’t bother coming back to the river, but simply couldn’t just leave it there, thus fighting the traffic once more.

 Back again and wadered, I felt calmer, retraced to my entry point, and once again waded carefully upstream to the first bend, fishing a little nymph beneath a New Zealand indicator. The green wool dotted under and I felt a bump. Was that a fish? The next cast brought a little, wild Brown trout, so pretty and vibrant.

 Just around that Lilliputian bend was a deeper hole, formed by the flow bouncing off the submerged bole of a bankside tree. From there I extricated a better Brownie, about six ounces, which bent the little rod into a satisfying arc. The next four fish were all Chub, from one to two pounds, not what I was after but super fun, even pulling drag on the little Ryobi Magnesium reel. This was a first time use too; I bought the reel (not quite old enough to be ‘vintage’ yet), with a spare spool and hardly any wear, for just £5. Second-hand, third-hand, what does it matter? A bargain! The little outfit was a joy to use, and felt as light as the proverbial.

 I suppose the double journey cost me a large chunk of my time, so in the end I probably had less than three hours of fishing, but it seemed like mere minutes. The river, its denizens, and wildlife, enchanted me, filling my mind and senses, leading to utter contentment. The wellbeing that fishing brings is not given to many, sadly. The world would be a better place if everyone could find such relaxation and simple enjoyment.

 For them that likes numbers, my best wild Brown was three-quarters of a pound of sheer delight; all told, I gently unhooked and released ten trout, but lost almost as many more. Small fish easily flip off the barbless hooks my nymphs are tied on. Oh yes, there were those four Chub too.
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 I suppose I only covered half of the available beat, searching upstream for the little pools and slightly deeper glides to target. Time after time, as I waded up, I saw the startled shadows of spooked fish shooting away in the shallows and riffles, their camouflage so effective against the sands and gravels, until I waded into their windows and flushed them. Just how do you nymph through four- to six-inch deep, fast-flowing riffles?


 I had to tear myself away from that little stream, with no need to promise that I would return.