The continuing adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode74 *

 

“A fly at one end and a philosopher at the other” – Sir Humphry Davy

  Molly M. (my sat-nav, now nearly 10) took me a route she hasn’t before; I saw some pretty bits of Berkshire on a bright, spring morning, splashing through the residue of obviously heavy overnight rain, along winding, country roads.

 The Fluff Club have been to Barn Elms Fly Fishery a few times, the cursed Covid intervening since episode 44, nearly three years ago. Whytee was the first to arrive, the lodge still locked and deserted. You have to pre-book (and pre-pay), names are written on a black board, upon which you chalk your catch return before leaving. The proprietor does arrive to check who is fishing, during the course of a day, but all the Covid malarkey means there is no keeper at present, thus no tea, coffee or heating in the lodge. Worse, there is already a lot of weed, particularly blanket weed, which will be a growing problem, (see what I did there?). The recent storms have left a lot of woody debris littered around, although the bigger stuff has been removed.

 Sadly, only three Fluff Boys: the Professor, Moneypenny, and Whytee. Five or six other fishers put in an appearance while we were there, so not exactly crowded. The seven acre ‘lake’ splits into four distinct bodies of water, fed by and feeding the Pang, a chalkstream that flows into Old Father Thames. The water is accordingly clear, but the surrounding trees and low angle of the sun (the time of year) meant no sight fishing was possible yet.

The Professor and Moneypenny set up floating line outfits, Whytee perversely preferring an intermediate. There was a gusting wind forecast, but the valley situation and surrounding trees provides lots of sheltered water. The first hour passed, so far the fish were winning. The birdsong provided an entertaining backdrop while the odd Red Kite soared above, and Coots, Dabchicks, Canada Geese, Moorhen and Swans went about their business. One female Mallard was having an identity crisis, sticking closely to a pair of geese that looked understandably puzzled.

 By mid-morning all the Fluff Boys had moved several times, before Whytee was at the eastern-most bit, and spotted some fishy swirls out in the middle. Woody growth hampered the back-cast, and even from the end of a pontoon Whytee couldn’t quite reach the centre of the activity. Fortunately Rainbows are not territorial as such and circulate freely in a given area. Moneypenny came by, inquiring “Seen anything yet?” and Whytee told him about the fish moving out in the centre. M. moved onto the next platform along to have a bash.

 

Before too long, the black, flashy lure with bright green tungsten bead-head proved irresistible to a trout around two pounds that put up a spirited resistance before surrendering to Whytee’s waiting net. It was very noticeable that when a particularly handsome Great-crested Grebe paddled into the area, fishy activity stopped, starting again when it moved away.

 Within half an hour a second trout fell to that lure, this one a little larger, about two-and-a-half. A change of fly seemed appropriate so one of Whytee’s Biscuit Blobs was taken from the fly patch on the vest and attached to the tippet. Several casts later a fish bumped the fly, midst slow retrieve, came again, and was hooked. Almost at the net, head-shaking angrily, out flew the fly! “Ho hum!”, or words to that effect.  A few casts later, darned if the same thing happened! Therein lies a valuable lesson: taking a fly from your fly patch usually means its been used before, maybe caught fish, ergo you ought to check the hook-point! Whytee cursed the stupidity, then gave the point several licks along the little hook-hone on the side of his snips, before recommencing.

 Moneypenny hooked into a fish, but it made its escape ‘ere long. Next, Whytee’s Blob found another taker, which was being played when the proprietor turned up, doing the rounds, checking names and ’phone numbers, etc.. This Rainbow was under two pounds, but now holds the distinction of being the highest jumper Whytee has ever encountered: it made just the one huge leap that took what seemed an eternity before splash-down!

 Three in the bag, time approaching midday, Whytee headed for the lodge to eat a sandwich and enjoy a cold drink; on the way encountering the Professor who related he’d had several knocks, most to a blue/orange/white thingy recently concocted at a Fluff Club tying evening, but no proper takes. He and Moneypenny fished on, understandably, so Whytee lunched alone. Afterwards, a switch to a floating line outfit to fish a buzzer beneath a NZ indicator seemed a good idea. It transpired to be about as much use to Whytee as a chocolate teapot.

 Several moves over the next hour, not a sausage. W. changed the terminal tackle, removing the indicator to fish various patterns on the retrieve. Meanwhile, back at that eastern end, the Professor got a trout at last, fishing near the ‘out of order’ bridge, and went off to deal with his packed lunch. A short while after, Moneypenny, fishing from the first platform past the ornamental bridge, hooked a fish which was determined not to make his acquaintance. Run after run ensued, the fish trying to get into rushes, around staging supports, and so on. Eventually, it grudgingly came to the net. You would have thought, watching this battle, that this was a big fish; it turned out to be just three pounds, and that includes the turbo supercharger!

 Whytee was struggling to cast into the wind, inevitably soon losing what little casting ability he possessed; the chakras went into a tailspin, and the mojo packed up completely. Casting and confidence turned to rat-sh@t. Despondently going through the motions, Whytee was no longer ‘feeling it’. The Professor managed a second, but the fishing had become really hard. Maybe it was one of those ‘afternoon things’? Some waters are notorious for that. Whytee’s mood fell further when he noticed a chap, presumably a regular the way he targeted particular swims while circling the fishery, take three CnR fish (currently being trialled here) in quick succession from one spot. He moved on, but didn’t repeat that feat. Moneypenny packed up, just the one fish, then Whytee followed suit, soon joined at the cars by the Professor, who’d managed a second, but was also calling it a day as nothing seemed to be moving now, save for waterfowl. Driving home, Whytee’s depressed mood was lightened considerably by setting the stereo’s music at the “rip your face off” level.

 

*in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, an attempt to attain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comment the reader cares to make. Please ‘Like’ and ‘Follow’. Thank you.