Off the Log #7

 This recounts a day way back, when I was even more of an incompetent fly fisher than I am now. It’s a vivid memory, and another lesson.


 My daughter (bless) had organised her brothers and her mammy into arranging a Father’s Day special pour moi, thus a bright June day saw me at Avington, with a paid-up three fish ticket and a very nice packed lunch; the whole day stretched ahead of me.

 The first fly I knotted on dates this account: a black & green Montana. To Lake One then; third spot I tried BANG! I was into the first Rainbow, just ten minutes after starting fishing. A four-pound Avington beauty was soon safely in the net. Next stop Lake Two, casting from the left-hand bank (when you look down the fishery). I could see some cruisers above the lush, bright green weed, sometimes dropping into the ‘holes’ which I guessed were springs. Same fly, three casts and the scene repeated with a four-plus beaut scrapping and running wildly until subdued and drawn to the waiting net. Hang on! I’m two out of three and its only just gone 10.00? At this rate I might finish before lunch time. I decided to try the fly patterns I had never actually used before, because these ‘un-fancied’ ones that I had not heard or read about, just might slow the catch rate, and it might even be interesting fishing them

 Further along the bank was an area of clear bed where I could see a small shoal of Perch, keeping close to the bottom. The crystal-clear water was much deeper than it appeared. I tried fly after fly, most disdained, only one or two examined cursorily, before a six-ounce stripey gulped in a red thing I didn’t know the name of. When I slipped it back it dived down to the others and they sped out of sight. I decided to move onto Lake Three to try my hand at stalking. I had all the time in the world to try to locate one of those behemoths Avington was famous for.

 Off I went a-skulking. Shortly, kneeling by the manicured fringe foliage I changed fly, yet again, then after testing the knot, I rose to my feet, and disturbed a massive Brown which had been just a couple of feet in front of me, tucked into the bank. As it bolted its massive bulk and bold patterning put me in mind of a crocodile! Of course, I scouted around for quite a while, but failed to locate it again. Afterward, I spent ages at the top of Lake Three, in that deep hole, trying to tempt one of the dark shapes down in the gloom, before the penny dropped. Those broad ‘shoulders’ didn’t match with the lengths of these fish: they weren’t Trout but Carp! Bloody wily ones at that! Hey-hum, the call of the tum: time for that lunch!

 A phat meat pie from a champion local butcher, accompanied by a Greek salad and home-made potato salad, a tasty tarte for afters, and all washed down with the 250ml bottle of good red, I took my time. Eventually I thought I really ought to get back to fishing.

 Back to Lake Two, this time on the opposite bank, I could only spot one or two fish ‘on the fin’. Another angler caught a nice Rainbow, and once he had despatched it, he lay it on the grass near a simple bench where his fishing bag perched, and walked off to try further along. As soon as he was twenty-odd yards away from his catch, two enormous crows floated down from a chestnut tree, in mere seconds taking out the eyes and gills of the hapless corpse. He ran back, yelling, and they de-materialised, leaving him crestfallen, staring down at the mutilated body. When I later mentioned the crow incident to Sam, he told me this pair were becoming infamous, woe betide any angler not using a bass bag or stringer. They had even pinched the odd packed lunch from the unwary.

 The afternoon wore on and frustration began to set in. I saw fewer and fewer fish to target. Several fisheries in this part of Hampshire exhibit this afternoon slow-down. One fishery manager told me it’s because the fish get weary and wary after being ‘lined’ for half of the day. I was suffering now, realising this mucking about with flies I didn’t really have faith in meant I probably wasn’t even fishing them well, confidence ebbing. I needed to change to ‘confidence’ flies and give myself a stern talking to, ridding the anxiety that frustration would morph into futility.

 Around 17.30 Georgee, Sam’s oppo, rode up on the quad bike to tell me “We closing soon”. All the other anglers seemed to have gone, and time was running out fast for me. Nearly twenty minutes later I could hear the quad coming back, then it happened: something pulled at my lure, a Dawson’s Olive variant. I paused, nothing, so I restarted my retrieve and the line tightened, I was into one, at last! I played the fish carefully, scrutinised by the waiting Georgee, until at last I had my third. I had made my limit and also learned something about the perils of overconfidence and presumption!