Regular visitors to The Urban Fieldsportsman will have, over recent months, often found this site unavailable, due to a suspension by the previous hosting package, caused by an unresolved software problem, too techi to go into on this page.

Upgrading to a more expensive hosting with that hosting company was a promised fix, but have now changed to a different, WordPress friendly host, who assure reliable availability of the Blog.

While only a minor annoyance to those unable to log onto The Urban Fieldsportsman, this has been a stressful time for myself, finding the site suspended at random periods, unable to post fresh blogs each time, while watching the worldwide viewing figures decline.

For all those loyal viewers out there, thanks for your support.

Ken

A day spent cutting back hedges in the garden, bagging up the off cuts and a couple of trips to the recycling centre, had just about worn me out. Relaxing in the sun with a well earned cup of tea, my wife commented that she was surprised, that I did not want to go fly fishing, as it was going be a lovely evening. I had been sitting there considering the most diplomatic way to broach the subject, when the words had fluttered from her lips like poetry. Realising I was on a winner, I shrugged my shoulders saying that the mayfly would be finished by now and the chances of a trout would be low, but I could go after dinner if she didn’t mind. It was true, the mayfly would be over, but it was still worth a visit.

Arriving after 7 pm the sun was still warm, the air still and a variety of flies were lifting off, even a few mayfly were about, flying low across the river. The only thing missing was the sight and sound of rising trout as I walked downstream, casting my mayfly into runs that held fish last week. The trout were still there, ignoring my artificial, making a mental note for my return upstream.

I tied on a GR Hares Ear nymph with the leader greased to the last 18 inches and began to work my way back. One observed fish sat on a corner out of the flow and the nymph induced it to move out for an inspection, but no more. Working my way back upstream, the sinking sun began to blind me, blocking out my sight of the leader on the surface. It was time to go. Nothing was rising. The trout were full of mayfly and were no longer interested. I should have stayed at home.

Close to the road bridge a fish rose under trees. Greasing up the nymph to float, I tried casting up to the rise, but caught the fly in a branch on the back cast. Pulling it free, the 4 lb tippet broke. Mayfly were now lifting off in numbers and I tied on a Mayfly to the new tippet. Giving up on this fish, I walked up to another in open water. A messy cast put the fish down.  Ten yards on another splashy rise was covered. Success a fish, but a small one.

This wild brown was a welcome sight, but not what I had hoped for. At least I had caught a trout. Reaching the van, I decided to walk to the bridge for a look upstream, the sun was now below the trees, but the light was good and mayfly were still filling the air.

A fish rose below the bend, then again as I watched. I climbed the stile into the field, then got into the river. It was still rising, lying in a deep run between shallows and I moved as slowly as possible to get in range. There was no wind and my first cast was ignored, despite what I considered to be a perfect cast. Another rise and I cast further up. Wop, it took. All hell let loose as the trout flapped on the surface, before dashing round the corner beneath a tree. Grabbing my landing net I followed it, putting on pressure to drag it out into the open. This was a good fish, that I did not want to lose, letting it run down the channel past me, netting it on the return.

I was tempted to continue upstream, but I was now satisfied with my good fortune. The mayfly had switched on for me for the last time this year and I had been there to take advantage of the feeding frenzy. Duffers fortnight had lasted five weeks this year.

Regular pest control visits to clear rabbits from beneath a cricket pavilion are beginning to show results, with fewer signs of fresh digging on the cricket pitch. Impressed, the park’s area manager asked me to check out two more pavilions this week. Arriving in daylight, the first pavilion sits on a concrete base, but air gaps in the wooden structure showed little evidence of rabbit droppings and I moved onto the second pavilion, which is supported on pillars above the ground. Like the original, this is infested with rabbits, runs and scrapes showing on both sides, while the area around it has that rabbit hutch aroma.

Surrounded by trees looking out over the pitch, I settled down to wait for the sun to go down and the rabbits to come out. The Walther scope on the Career gathers light better than my eyes and a sudden movement from the back of the building showed two small rabbits had emerged, the crosshairs standing out against the grey fur. The first shot tumbled the rabbit, which kicked it’s way back under the building, the other diving for cover. Five minutes later a large rabbit come out. Tracking the crosshairs along its body for a head shot, it moved, then stopped. Crosshairs on again, I squeezed the trigger just as it moved again. Missed. As the light faded it became more difficult to see, some rabbits came out and faded away like ghosts. I’d left my lamp at home, but I’d knocked down enough for a refill of the magazine, which takes eight Bisley Magnum .22 pellets.

Looking to my right I could now see activity on the cricket pitch and circled back to lie out under a tree only feet away from the front of the building. This was enough movement to scatter the rabbits back under the pavilion. I waited. First out was a young kit, the pellet passing straight through and hitting the wood work. An adult came out and froze. Sighting for a head shot, it dived back. At this range of ten yards, a chest shot would have done the trick, but old habits die hard. After a further twenty minutes it was too dark to see again and by the light of my phone, gathered up those rabbits that I could find.

At times it had been fast and furious work, much like a shooting gallery, many of the bunnies too small even for a burger, but pest control is pest control. I refilled the magazine and walked down toward the other pavilion, which is back lit by the nearby car park. As I approached a head popped up and I fired. Rabbits scattered from unseen places. I’d hit my target.

There was no close cover and I settled down alongside a tree with a view of the front and one end. These would be longer shots up to 35 yards, but illuminated by the sodium lights of the car park. It was the shadow of the first rabbit that I saw, almost invisible to the eye. A good size, it was sitting up, a perfect target for a rested shot at 30 yards. It went down kicking and I put in another head shot to make sure. Ten minutes later another movement 25 yards away potted another small one.

A bus pulled into the car park and sat with the engine running. Time to go home after a busy evening. This park was hit hard last year by myxomatosis, but it has soon recovered with a baby boom.