RH Fly Fishing

    Traditionally, at this time of year, we reflect on the one ‘ebbing’ away and look forward to the one ‘flooding’ in. Now that I am retired, I tend to concentrate my reflecting on family stuff, followed by fishing stuff. Looking back on the year inevitably brings aspirations for the one that follows. When it comes to fishing it’s nice to flick through my log and re-live some of it. After making the last log entry the final task is to calculate the stats: rod average (total number of fish divided by the number of sessions) and the average weight (total weight divided by the total number of fish).   Well, if it was good enough for F M Halford, some say the ‘daddy’, who am I to differ? I started keeping a fishing log many years ago when I was a coarse fisherman (yeah, okay) and in my competitive days the log became a very handy source of information on venues, etc.   After a lay-off (four children in the household, eventually becoming more manageable week-end wise) I took to fly fis

    “The river still chattered on … a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the unsatiable sea.” – Kenneth Grahame   Nowadays the very-excellent Meon Springs operates on a ‘booking in advance’ basis, so if you want to follow in the footsteps of the famous Fluff Club, you know what you’ll have to do. Greg will do his utmost to accommodate you. This trout fishery featured in episodes 10, 27, 34, 40, 51, 59, and 63. Anglers weren’t the only visitors today: in addition to the usual couple of pairs of Dabchicks, some Mallards, Coots, Swans and Moorhens, were a couple of farmyard ducks, a loud mob of Greylag Geese, and a small flock of Tufted Duck; the wildfowl easily outnumbered the anglers.   Representing the Fluff Club today were the Professor, the Inspector, the Admiral, Lumberjack, and Whytee. There were at least twelve other fisherfolk, including two of the fairer sex, … Right on! (as we used to say way, way ba

   Being environmentally-concerned, we no longer do Christmas cards, [nor Christmas wrapping paper either] so we've used social media to wish everyone a very HAPPY CHRISTMAS !!! With sincere HOPES that 2022 will see mankind overcome this pandemic and all its evil variants. Love and Peace to all, <"}}}><

   After the Brown Trout season ends a few of the Association’s beats can still be fished for Grayling, until the end of January. By dint of using one of my guest tickets, Bri and I could spend a day chercher les dames! Upon our rendezvous we realised we had both fished here before, independently of each other and many years ago, by way of the gift of a day’s fishing bought from the Rod Box, once a major feature in fly fishing Hampshire. We recollected that back then the banks had been mown right to the edge, making the beat largely featureless. Nowadays, its nice to report, the Association’s keeper has very much ‘wilded’ the banks, carefully, so that there are some unfishable stretches and those that are fishable are from one bank or the other, not both. It’s certainly full of fish throughout , the majority being wild Brown Trout, some already plainly up to a-pound-and-a-half. There were still many of the stockers too, left from earlier in the season. During the day I walked all of

 “ It’s all across this nation, If it’s all just inadvertent simulation, A pattern in all mankind, What’s got the whole world faking?”             -   Mankind,   by Pearl Jam     Just think of those great sporting rivalries: Ali & Frazier, Borg & McEnroe, England v. Germany, Prost & Senna, the Ashes, etc; such amazing, wonderful, historic clashes! Joining this pantheon of greatness, trial and tribulation, is the sixth John Hardeley Memorial flyfishing competition, fought out at Woodington Lakes every December by the Fluff Club members.   Sadly, only three Fluff Boys appeared on today’s billing: the Professor, the Admiral, and Whytee. We sadly reflected upon the deaths of two of the JHM stalwarts, and in addition upon the effects this damn pandemic is having on our numbers. Fortunately for Jim and Sian, our hosts, there were four other paying customers as well.   As per the usual rules, the best brace of trout would win the trophy; the participants have to cease fi

  B hadn’t been to Damerham (the home of the Blue Trout) before, so when we were discussing venue choice for our latest session he favoured giving it a punt. The preceding Saturday and Sunday had been frigid, Monday slightly less, but the appointed Tuesday was forecast to be balmy by comparison, some warmer air passing through. Indeed it was, a little drizzle twice, but otherwise grey skies. I kept my fingers crossed that the water would warm past the critical five degrees centigrade, and it must have, as the astonishingly clear waters revealed lots of trout ‘on the fin’.   Jeremy told us we were the only two booked in, so we would have the fishery as well as the coffee pot to ourselves. He added that there was a pod of fish constantly circling in that little bay towards the end of Hollyhead where the track runs close, turning towards the stew ponds. There certainly was: Blues, and some Sandies, with darker Rainbows, all going anti-clockwise. I’ve seen trout shoaled up and circling bef

    I hadn’t fished Chiphall Lake for a while, and as I pulled into the car park the colours of autumn reflecting in the still surface added to the allure of trout topping. The night had been chilly but the temperature was supposed to climb to ten degrees C under the grey skies. Moorhens, Coots, and Dabchicks busied themselves with breakfast, while a gang of Mallard squabbled and fought, out by that first little island. The mating game, I supposed.  Noticing some crayfish pots, I asked Martin if there were many of these varmints in the ‘lake’, he replied he’d only hauled four crayfish in the past year, but when he first put the pots out, some years ago, they caught fifty kilos. These are the invasive American Signal species, by the way, so this apparent decline is a good thing.   My buddy and I were both fishing intermediate outfits with small lures. I had a knock, but it came to nought. Shortly afterwards, B hooked up, using a size twelve ‘Nemesis’. The Rainbow fought very strongl

    I’m not superstitious, touch wood, believing that fact trumps fancy. On the morning of our trip to the wonderful John O’Gaunt trout fishery I noted the frost and night-time temperature suddenly down to 3C, the forecast for a sunny day with some clouds, and the barometer way down, to 996. In addition, we were just three days short of a new moon. To me, all this spelled out a tough day’s fishing ahead. Not on your nelly! JO’G, once the thick mist burned off, showed us fish moving everywhere!   Brian and I eschewed the main ‘lake’, as ever preferring the smaller ‘Simms’, always clear, although at this time of year the low angle of the sun doesn’t help fish spotting much. I supplied my fishing buddy with four patterns I tied: a lime, tungsten bead-head WB (thanks, Fly Fish Food), my BFD variant, the Nemesis (cheers, Steve Cullen), and Tequila Blob. Two of each. The ensuing session saw the fishing on fire, and all four patterns worked their voodoo. During the morning, to prolong thing

  Wading up a small river, completely steeped in the natural world, is like nothing else; it’s so good for the spirit, soul, and well-being. Casting a fly for wild Brown trout, the jewels of British freshwater, takes things to an even higher level, simply sublime. Any troubles bouncing around in my head were soon drowned by the busy noise of the stream as it whispered, chattered, and giggled on its way.     The first two spots didn’t produce a take, provided you exclude the trees, but in the third little pool the pink foam indicator twitched as something inspected the size 18 jig fly, but the fish kicked away straight after my strike. I changed flies again, now trying a Red Dart jig which elicited no interest, although a ten inch Brownie actually rose to the indicator!   Time to move again; a deeper channel past a large tree trunk and roots mass finally produced the goods, an eight inch Brown battling wildly having eaten a little quilled jig nymph, but nothing followed despite severa