Chiphall, November

 

 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 strongly, making run after run but in due course was safely in the net, and we toasted its capture as is our custom.

 Although fish continued rising intermittently we couldn’t actually see them due to the angle of the low light this time of year, I was beginning to find fishing blindly was a bit tedious, so I suggested we move from the deeper water at the southern (car park) end. The water is shallower along much of the western bank, until past the islands. We tried a couple of places where we could spot fish moving, eventually coming to the deeper channel which follows the bank towards the inflow from the Meon.

 B continued to fish lures but I had moved onto more natural-looking patterns, and a black Muskins brought my first trout.

The second took close to the bank and was our best for the session, going three-and-a-quarter pounds; another strong fish which put up quite a show with fast, surging runs and intermittent jumps. The next fly I tried was a size sixteen PTN variant, still on my fly patch from Damerham. I targeted a darker fish which took on the third cast, it was around two pounds and once despatched fluid started shooting from its vent in a constant stream. I’ve seen this before with cock fish, but this wasn’t milt because it was clear, not milky. I stripped it as though it was an eggy hen, there was a lot of it! Later I remarked on this to Martin, because nowadays fish farms are supposed to supply only Diploids (infertile trout). He said the procedure they carry out doesn’t always work properly.

 Noon had been and gone, so we headed back to the cars for our lunch, eating on the table and chairs bankside in front of the lodge. While we masticated our repast, we chewed the fat about this and that. I told B that during the past year I had managed to whittle down the number of fly boxes in my tackle bag from 21 to a more manageable 15, and offered him to help himself to any flies he fancied before we recommenced. At the car I explained which boxes held which patterns, and B selected some, according to whatever whim moved him.

 Because of the topping fish, I had earlier decided to try to catch my final one with a dry fly, so I changed to a #5 floating line set up; we re-joined the fray in front of the cars, because most of the risers were out there, over deeper water. B stuck with his intermediate line. The angle of daylight and floating leaves and debris made it hard to see the dry, but I just about managed. The little, black Shuttlecock brought no interest, so when the CdC plumes were completely soaked through I switched to a dry Daddy. Four or five casts later I secured my fourth trout. My buddy was getting a tad dejected, having had nothing since that early first, and he asked me if the fishery operated a fish credit system. I went to ask: it was a ‘yes’, and at that his demeanour brightened visibly.

 They say ‘a faint heart never won fair maid’ so I suggested he knot on one of the Tequila Blobs I tied for him, and to fish it with a ‘roly-poly’ retrieve. Bang! Fish on! Number two cheered him no end, and soon after that a bow-wave chased his fleeing fly, but the strike failed to connect. Never mind, he was beaming now, and the third Rainbow ate the fly soon afterwards. Happy days!

 Martin shouted “I’m closing the gate in five minutes”, so I recommended B try the next swim along, which was undisturbed and where the fish wouldn’t have seen his fly. First chuck, final fish on! Stripping back Blobs isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but Bri enjoyed the change in method, and when fish are chasing it is certainly exciting. Thank you Chiphall, a good session.