The River Whitewater, a chalkstream which runs seven miles north, from Greywell in Hampshire, to the River Blackwater in Berkshire, is a little known trout stream, which has been giving Farnborough Angling Society members sport for over seventy years. The small number of flyfishermen, who control the final four miles of the river, were out again this week getting the banks in trim, before the season begins on 1st April.

One of the projects undertaken by the willing volunteers, was the contruction of a flow deflector, utilising a fallen tree blown down across the river, by the winter storms.

By the time I arrived to do my bit, a team of six had already cut up the tree and dragged the logs out of the river, while Kevin the riverkeeper tidied up bankside snags.

The banks had now been cleared and the logs ready to be staked and wired in place. The aim is to raise the level of this shallow run, creating a longer pool, while increasing the fl0w down to the next, adding a new fish holding feature in the process. The top end of this pool has provided me with several overwintered brown trout over the years and this work can only improve it’s fish holding capabilities.

While I got a fire going to clear surplus wood from the bank, stakes were driven deep into the gravel riverbed, to hold the logs in place, the final step being to permanently secure them in place with heavy gauge wire stapled into the stakes.

With the fire well underway, it was just a case of keeping it fed with heavier logs, Jenny, Kevin’s wife keeping busy with a cordless mini chainsaw to help clear the bank, while the lads in the river worked up a sweat, taking turns to pound the stakes in. A halt was called at lunch time for tea and coffee, plus homemade sausage rolls and warming chilli pies courtesy of Jenny.

With lunch over and more importantly, a well earned rest, the team got on with completing the task, sawing off the tops of the stakes, which once the season starts, would have begun to collect angler’s flies.

The finished deflector was working well once we had finished, having raised the level above it, with new riffles cleaning the gravels downstream, while the new feature will soon hold a trout or two.

Oil booms have been out on my local River Cut since Christmas, but optimism saw me back beside the once prolific little river, for a last gasp attempt to conjure out some roach, before the UK river season ended this week. I could not have chosen a worse day weather wise, as the wind was howling through the bankside trees, but this has never affected the fishing from the weirside swim, where warm water pours from the town water treatment works. At this time of year roach have gathered in their hundreds to feed and spawn among the silk weed fronds, with 10 lb bags likely in a four hour session on the breadpunch. Parked next to the river, I saw this notice.

My heart sank at the sight of this sign. The Cut has been polluted many times and recovered, but this was the first time that I had seen an official notification from Thames Water.

I unloaded the gear and set up my 12 foot Hardy float rod, mixed up some sweet raspberry groundbait, the same combination as my successful roach bashing session last week, when those around me had blanked. In this swim I prefer to start off with a couple of balls beneath the brambles opposite, where a shoal of three to ten ounce chub live, attacking and disintegrating the grounbait balls in seconds. They sat visible on the bottom untouched. Oh dear, I thought that the gangs of gudgeon would at least be gorging themslves on the free offerings.

Trotting the length of the brambles brought not bites. A few balls of groundbait down the middle, brought no interest either, as I eased the over depth stick float rig down toward the foam. Holding it back hard, often results in a self hooked roach, but not this time, apart from a rotting reed, that dragged the float under, giving me a glimmer of hope.

For not the first time this season on the Cut, I went through the motions, trying against the evidence in front of my eyes, to get a bite. For years I have been a champion of this little river, but now I have to accept that it will probably never return to its once former glory. I packed up and returned to the car.

Other anglers have reported that the river seems dead all the way down the River Thames five miles away. Anyone that has seen the recent TV documentary Dirty Business  on the once beautiful chalk stream, the River Windrush, will understand that our rivers do not stand a chance against the need for big profits from the owners, many of them foreign, of our water companies.

An example of what could once have been expected on a cold windy March day on the Cut.

The sun was shining in a blue sky as I ate my lunch, the plan for the afternoon, being a visit to the garden centre to buy potting compound and Spring plants for the rain sodden garden, BUT after a walk around, the plan changed. My wife would rather spend the time out in the rare sunhine tidying up the borders. The magic words “Why don’t you go fishing?” left me with a dilema. Where can I go? Locally the river was polluted again and the pond had been scavenged by cormorants. The Blackwater was flooded, so it had to be Farnham’s Kings Pond, that always fishes, doesn’t it?

Leaving home, the clouds were already gathering, driven by a fresh wind coming my way. Once unloaded after the 30 minute drive, I headed for the end swim, which would be protected from the worst of the weather, due to a high, tree lined bank. You’ve guessed it, there was someone else fishing it! “Have you had much?” I asked. “Not a touch, nothing on the pole, or feeder.” Great, just what I need. After telling him how far I’d travelled to probably blank, I set up two pegs down, where the wind was already lashing the surface, only mixing up a couple of handfuls of ground bait, as I did not expect to stay long.

I started just off bottom at 8 metres over the shelf, putting in a couple of egg sized balls of strawberry groundbait, using a 4 x 16 anttenna rig, with a 5 mm punch on a size 16 barbless hook. Within minutes the float sank and I missed the bite, but the bread stayed on. A recast to the same spot and saw the float disappear immediately. I counted to two and struck, this time feeling the rattle of a small roach, which I drew back to my hand.

Casting in again, the wind became stronger and I was having trouble keeping the pole steady, despite burying the pole tip, the float pulling under in the drift. The anttenna sank out of sight and I lifted into another small roach, which I skimmed back to hand. This was already two more than the angler on the end peg, who seemed to be using a similar rig, but feeding pellets. These roach were obviously taking on the drop and I shallowed up by a foot and increased the tail to the hook with instant success. Number three was in the keepnet.

Another angler arrived with his rod already made up, plonking himself down between me and the end peg and proceeded to bombard his swim with 10 mm boilies. With no other anglers along our bank, I was a bit peeved, as I had given the end peg the benefit of a 30 yard gap, but there you are, the days of curtesy among anglers seems to be gone.

The wind continued to gust, causing more missed bites and decided to feed a new line fishable with only the top two joints, stringing out the float shot, to allow the bait a slower fall, casting out through the groundbait each time. It now became easier to mend the bow in the line and bites soon became instant, striking as the float sank. The roach were getting bigger and bolder.

I was now feeding a small ball of groundbait a cast and needed to mix up more groundbait, while keeping an eye on the float. Needless to say that it had gone, when I looked up. I struck blind, feeling the weight of a better fish, this time a small skimmer bream splashing on the suface, but I swung it in anyway, the hook safely inside the lip.

I was now in the Zone, unhook, punch and hook the bread, flick out another small ball of feed, cast over it, wait for the float to go down, strike and swing in another fish. The guy next door was hunkered down out of the wind. He fed boilies a couple of times, then packed up. I don’t think he caught. It started to rain, which was the signal for Mr End Peg to pack up. I hadn’t started fishing until 2:30, intending to fish until 5:30, hoping to finish the afternoon with a carp or two, but the wind was getting colder and decided to stay until 4:30 to make it a two hour session. Mr E.P came over to watch me for five minutes, having never seen the punch in action, “a bit like bleak bashing with bigger fish.” I gave him a quick tutorial. I packed up, not before time, as I could hardly feel my fingers.

My fears of a blank were unfounded and I’d ended up with just over 30 fish, some better roach and a couple of small skimmers, but never needed the landing net once.