Meon 25th October

 

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 several casts.

In the next swim I hooked a snag but was able to wade to it, retrieving a chunky, waterlogged branch, adorned by a three inch red-spotted, copper spinner attached to thick nylon, proof the poachers have been. Later I showed it to the keeper when he passed by.

 Further up-river then, only to lose the fly to an overhanging bough I hadn’t noticed. The replacement fly was a Partridge soft hackle with some Hends No. 17 (purple) in its thorax – a fly that’s done the business before on the Meon.

 Arriving at a bigger pool below brickwork vestiges of an old lock (or something similar), I found fish in numbers: catching nine and dropping a further three almost at the net, wild trout ranging from six to thirteen inches, gorgeous little fish. Eventually the commotion quietened the swim, and I suddenly realised it had been drizzling, although the overhead canopy had provided some protection, although many of the leaves were falling in a steady trickle.

 Lowering light levels were making it harder to track the indicator so my session was nearing an end, but one more little pool produced the smallest trout of the visit, about five inches, with distinct blue-grey parr markings, another gem, and still capable of putting a bend in my rod’s tip section.

 

Back at the car for a drink, I checked the time. The three hour session had flown by, and my final tally was eleven wild Brown trout; thankfully no Chub this time. I had covered less than half of the beat. There is just one week remaining of the River Meon trout fishing season, I wonder …