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.

It has been a few years since my last visit to Latimer Park Trout Fishery, which benefits from the crystal clear waters of the River Chess, as it flows from the chalk of the Chiltern Hills to form a pair of lakes, set among parkland designed by Lancelot Capability Brown. The fishery, run by Latimer Flyfishers, holds wild brown trout, rainbows and grayling, my host being life long friend and Latimer regular Peter and despite a forecast of rain, I was looking forward to reaquainting myself with the hard fighting rainbow trout.

Arriving before lunch, the threat of rain had given way to light drizzle under a leaden sky, with gusts of wind sweeping the surface, not ideal, but fish were feeding on the surface, which was encouraging, but no-one was catching. Peter said that the bush telegraph had advised size 12 Klinkhammers, or Emergers, but I opted for a silver bodied bouyant Muddler with Daddy style legs out the back.

Peter is used to speedy results at Latimer and was soon changing to another pattern, keeping up a busy work rate, while I prefer a steady approach, happy to cast out and leave it, then slowly twitching the muddler back through the wave with a bow in the line. First cast produced a boil as I lifted off. One fish followed the lure in, nibbling at the tail, but would not take, veering off ten feet from the bank in the clear water.

Peter was IN at last, a one and a half pound rainbow fighting all over the surface. I wandered up to him. He was now using a tan foam bodied Daddy Long Legs. He released the fish and recast. A fish rose immediately, but he missed it! He rooted around in his fly box and gave me a day-glo orange foam Daddy, which I took back and tried, but the wind had got up, blowing in my face, with the Daddy acting like it had a parachute attached. I cut it off and put on a size 12 Brown Buzzer and tied on an orange piece of indicator wool, with the buzzer a foot down. The lake is very shallow close in, being a flooded valley, much of this area is slightly weeded, where fish browse, so it was worth a try. I had a series of bobs and dips. One fish swam away without taking the indicator under. I missed all these fish.

Peter called out. “I’ve cracked it!” as he struck into his second rainbow. I walked up to him again. He was now using a size 14 black glass buzzer on a very short link to an indicator. It figured. These tiny buzzers were just hanging in the surface film. Another delve into the box and Peter handed me a tiny Black Buzzer. I’d been on the right trail and went back to cut off the heavily dressed size 12 brown buzzer, tying on the much smaller black one. This left a tail of 5 inches to the indicator wool. Ideal.

The wind was gusting now and a successful cast depended on the lull between gusts. A few more cast and the indicator disappeared. I struck and At Last a good fish. Aware that the tiny barbless hook was all that was between me and a long rainbow, I kept the rod up and let the fish do all the work, letting it take line from the reel, then gaining it back on the reel each time. Peter was soon by my side with his new landing net. With very few fish being caught, the bailiff was watching too. “Today would be nice” he commented. If I lost this fish, he probably would have said that I had rushed it. That’s fishermen, always know better! I guided the rainbow into the net and the hook dropped out.

A long slim rainbow of about 3 lb. In better condition this would have gone 5 lb. I kept it in the net for a few minutes to recover, then lowered the rim and it flicked it’s tail and was gone. One of the locals came up for a look. He had been there since 9 am and hadn’t had a touch. “What did you catch it on?” I showed him.

Peter took his net back and I tried again and missed a rapid take, feeling the fish, which left a spreading boil on the surface. There was another call from Peter, as his rod bent into fish Number 3. “First cast with a Blue Flash Damsel!” He’d changed his fly again. Shock tactics often work. Having agreed to fish for another half hour, it began raining hard. Time to get under cover of the gazeebo and pack up.

According to the bailiff, the previous day had been very productive for the visiting anglers, with Big Daddies catching many fish, depite the lack of actual flies on the water. Oh well that’s trout fishing. What works one day, won’t neccesarily work the next. That’s why we all have boxes full of pretty coloured flies of all shapes and sizes.

I’d enjoyed my day, although casting a Weight Forward No 6 Floating line on an 8 foot fly rod, takes it’s toll on untrained muscles. Peter had one more treat for his old friend, two packs of his own smoked rainbow fillets. They will go down well on some scrambled egg on toast.

Reports of trout catches from my nearby River Whitewater, have not been encouraging so far this season, but with the news that Mayfly were now hatching on the Hampshire chalk stream, controlled by Farnborough and District AS, I decided that it was time to retrieve my fly rod from the corner of garage, where it has rested, ignored for the last year.

The afternoon had begun cool and overcast, but by the time that I had parked the car, the sun was at full blast, a Whitewater regular, Richard, was putting on his waders and I stopped for a chat about our chances of catching. He’d had three trout from two visits, but two blanks lately and was not optimistic, but happy to be back on the river. Richard was going downstream, so I opted to fish upstream.

The river looked in perfect condition, despite the lack of rain and with no rises, or Mayfly showing I tied on a Goldhead Hares Ear and cast across to a slack, working the nymph across the flow. Second cast the line pulled back to the slack. A good take and I missed it. Hopefully it was a small dace and not a trout. No more offers and I walked up to the next pool, wading across to get a better cast beneath the trees. At the top of the pool was a bush stretching across and I cast as close as I dared. As I brought the nymph back, a pound trout followed and turned. I struck thinking that the trout had taken, but no, it was spooked. Suddenly there were small white Mayfly lifting off and fish were rising to the emerging insects. It always stikes me as sad, that after three years of growing down in the mud, that at the moment that it sees the sun for the first time, it is crushed by the jaws of a hungry trout!

Snipping off the nymph, I pulled a small white parachute Mayfly out of my flybox, tying it onto a three foot length of 4 lb line, which I looped onto the leader. For dry flies I prefer a longer leader, which gives a softer presentation of the artificial on the turn over. By the time that I had done this, the hatch was over, but did some false casting to get the range. As I was drying off the fly, a trout rose close to the bush and I made a cast. Too short. Another foot of line and it dropped in. The trout came up, took a look and turned away. A reflex cast and the fly was back again. Whop and it was gone. The trout stood on its tail and dived straight for the roots in seconds. My seven foot, three weight flyrod, bent double and the trout won, taking my fly with it. That was my only white Mayfly, so a small yellow hackled, ribbed fly substituted.

I moved on upstream looking for rises, passing dozens of groups of Mayfly bobbing up and down in their ritual dances, but no rises. Close to the weir I finally saw the spreading rings of a rise and walked toward the feeding trout. Keeping low, I watched it moving around the pool, sometimes aggressively taking two flies at a time. I measured out my line, gradually getting into the area. Spent flies were coming down and the trout was slurping them into its big mouth. Several times it was preoccupied with flies ahead, or either side of mine. I kept casting. It came up behind and studied the fly as it drifted down, then shot away. A big fish. Then. It was on! Fighting hard upstream, it was looking for snags. It turned and rush off downstream past me. I turned it again. The runs got shorter and it was on the surface and in my net.

A very solid, slightly kiped up stockie, that saved my day. With the trout in the net, I held the net facing upstream waiting for the brownie to recover its strength. A few minutes of this and it nosed its way out and swam into the depths. I had probably been fishing for under two hours, but the sun, walking over rough ground and using muscles not used for a year casting, plus fighting this beast, had me ready to go home for a cup of tea.

The fly

The Hampshire chalkstream, the River Whitewater has been in flood since March and I had to wait until the middle of May this week to pay my first visit of the season. A week of sunshine encouraged me pay an evening visit to the river, which is controlled by Farnborough and District AS, but the river was still carrying too much water and colour for traditional dry fly tactics, so I opted for a Gold Ribbed Hares Ear nymph, a good early season starter on the Whitewater.

As I walked upstream from the road, there was plenty of fly life, even a few Mayfly lifting off, while large Daddy Long Legs Crane Flies were scudding about from the bankside grass, but no sign of rises, even from the deep slower sections. This was only a scouting exercise anyway and I made my way towards the weir, casting the GRHE nymph to likely looking runs. It was also a pleasure casting a fly again, satisfied that my accuracy had not suffered due to lack of practice, a classic case of Just Like Riding a Bike, you never forget.

As I reached this section there was a rise ahead of me and I planned my approach to avoid the trees and bankside vegitation and even extended my landing net to its maximum to be able to reach the river from the bank. I began working the nymph upstream toward the point that I had seen the rise, but the flow was too quick, skating the nymph along just below the surface. There was a pluck on the line. That WAS a take. Time to try something else. I have a box labled Heavy Nymphs and I reached in for a size 14 Gold Head GRHE. This would slow down the retrieve and fish deeper. It was worth a try.

I began searching the slower water close to the opposite bank. The line stopped on the retreive and I lifted the rod. I was IN. In that instant a trout leapt vertically out of the river in front of me, tumbling in an effort to shed the hook, before running downstream past me, putting a bend in my seven foot rod and leaping clear again. It was only an eight inch wildie, but after catching roach all winter, this brown trout could fight. It swam into underwater reeds and became lodged. I walked downstream of the snag and it swam out. Battle commenced again, but it was one sided and the landing net was waiting.

Many of the wild browns in the Whitewater have this steely silver look, unfortunately the bright evening sun glared out most of the spots. Keeping the trout in the net, I lowered it back into the river with its head upstream, waiting for the gills to start pumping before allowing it to swim free.

I continued to walk upstream, casting as I went, a deep pull on the line bringing a fish to the surface. It was a small chub, which fought briefly, before being swung in.

I was pleased with the result, a trout and chub in less than an hour’s fishing, not big fish, but considering the pace and colour of the Whitewater, encouraging.

With less than a month to go before the start of the trout fishing season, Farnborough and District AS have been preparing the banks and clearing the River Whitewaterof fallen trees.

Severe flooding over the winter has changed the river flow in areas, a gravel run has shifted above this pool to scour out a deep hole, where there was once a muddy slack. The river looked in good condition, running crystal clear with good weed growth.

Since intensive crayfish trapping was undertaken by commercial trappers, the numbers of trapped has increased. This net containing at least two dozen adult crays. Averages of 50 kg a week removed, has been good for the processing plant, while the FADAS flyfishing members have seen an increased number of juvenile wild brown trout being caught and returned. This points to a higher survival rate for, spawn, fry and the invertabrates that they feed on.

A bonus for the working party this week, was to release a young wild brown trout from a crayfish net.

A week is a long time regarding the British weather. A week ago I had attended the Farnborough and District Angling Society’s work party on their Hampshire chalk stream, the River Whitewater. There was a good attendance of members, working in the Spring sunshine, clearing banks and removing fallen trees following the winter of storms. Wild garlic was scenting the air, while hatches of large dark olives were fluttering across the river and I looked forward to my first trout fishing outing on the following Friday, Open Day on April 1st .

In the meantime temperatures had plummeted to below zero accompanied by showers of hail, sleet and snow. By midday the frost had been thawed from the grass, with the sun shining between breaks in the clouds and I decided to drive to the river, taking a chance on the weather. I had a new fly line on my reel to try, plus some non traditional fly patterns in my box from Fish4Flies to compare with my own successful early season GH Sedge nymph, Deerhair Emerger and Blackdevil nymph.

Three of the Fish4Flies patterns I was keen to compare my traditional patterns with, were their Pinkey Tungsten Bug, Olive F-Wing and Zug Bug, all tied with synthetic materials.

As I drove closer to the river, the sky darkened with a massive black cloud, but there was an patch of blue in the distance and I parked up. My goodness, there was a bitter wind blowing, what a difference to last week, but I was here now and determined to get my line on the water, walking across the field to a pool that is noted for a few juvenile trout. I started off with my Blackdevil nymph bouncing along the bottom, impressed with the new Sunray 4 weight floating line, which flew out from my seven foot Shakespeare Agility rod with just a flick of the shoulder.

Running the nymph close to the edge along the deep run, the line straightened. A fish! No a branch on the bottom. Oh well, it got my heart racing for a second. Thankfully the branch came away from the bottom and drifted back to me. Picking it out of the river made me realise just how cold the river was. My hands were already frozen and now they were at another level, too cold and numb to try one of my new flies.

Having covered all the lies that have produced trout in the past, I climbed out of the river and walked up to deep a pool with a back eddy. I warmed my hands on a cup of hot tea. I could feel the hot liquid going down to my stomach. Very reviving. Time to try out the Pinkey Bug, casting along the crease of the eddy. This has a tungsten bead as a thorax and hit the water with a “plip” and sank quickly, like a Czech nymph, keeping the rod tip high and watching the line drift back to me. The line straightened. Another branch from the bottom. The eddy was full of them.

The wind was getting up and sleet began to fall. Sheltering under a tree, I checked my watch. I had only been there for 45 minutes, enough time to know that no trout would be caught by me today. After all, April 1st is All Fools Day in the UK and I qualified at this moment.

The weekend was forecast to be even worse with heavy rain and sleet again. Next week? My wife was not surprised to see me home so soon, even a life long optimist like myself knows when to quit.

The small Hampshire chalk stream controlled by Farnborough and District A.S, is looking in good condition for the 2022 trout fishing season, after working parties cleared away fallen trees from the River Whitewater and cut back over growth.

More a social event, than work, members were able to catch up on last season’s successes and failures, while notes were swapped over what was caught from where and with what fly. With only a small fly fishing membership, it is rare to meet another angler on the bank during the season and the preseason work parties are ideal for getting feed back.

Covid restrictions had limited the amount of work that could be undertaken on this natural river last year, but members have been busy making up for lost time. Above, willows were beginning to restrict the flow, while making casting impossible. Below, brambles had grown out across the river, catching flies, while the preseason haircut will allow casting to trout sheltering under the opposite bank.

Running through working farm land, the Whitewater fishing has to be a balance between the angler’s interests and the farmer’s commercial requirements. The land is rotated between arable and livestock, the anglers happy with a recent change over to sheep, following years of rearing frisky young bullocks, which roamed around in gangs terrorising any angler that they spotted on the bank. After a few near misses from flying hooves, I avoided any of the fields where they were pastured, preferring personal safety, over catching trout.

A dedicated team that has removed literally tons of signal crayfish from this little river over the last few years, resulted in successful spawning of wild fish, which are showing up in greater numbers.

There are now all year classes of trout showing.

The Whitewater was stocked with a wide variety of trout in the years before triploids and now has a mix of classic browns, and more silvery browns similar to the this one below, that I took last season on a mayfly.

Whatever their variety, these brown trout fight to the maximum effort and all require nursing back to full strength, before releasing. With only a few weeks to the start of the new season on April 1st, we can only look forward to balmy spring and summer days and the chance to net one of these beautiful fish.

An evening visit to the tiny Hampshire chalk stream, the River Whitewater, gave  me a last chance to fish the Mayfly this week, hot sunny days and warm evenings extending the hatch. Arriving before 7 pm, the sun was still streaming across the corn field as I made my way upstream and the Mayfly were already dancing on the breeze.

A Mayfly on my arm

Without waders and only wellies, my fishing would be limited to fishing from the bank, but I already knew where I would start first, far upstream toward the weir, where I had lost fish the week before. So I thought anyway, the sound of a big fish crashing into a Mayfly stopping me in my tracks.

Looking back downstream I could see possibly two fish rising with abandon, attacking the latest hatch. Minutes earlier when I had passed the area, there was no sign of fish, or Mayfly on the water, but that is the potluck of fly fishing in early June. By the time that I had travelled back, all was quiet again and I positioned myself as close to the river as I could. Behind was a tree, while upstream were reeds and a clump of cow parsley, with willows along the opposite bank.

Suddenly a fish rose beyond the clump of cow parsley, then another. There were definitely two good fish there, but the cast was impossible. After  extending my landing net to about 8 ft, I went for it, making horizontal false casts past the bush, but the Grey Wulff landed nowhere near the spot. The flow was too fast to avoid the fly dragging and I was lifting and casting. The trout were in a frenzy and so was I. Suddenly the line went tight as I lifted off and chaos ensued as the trout imitated an out board motor, hidden from view. I assumed that I was going to lose this fish in the following seconds, but stayed with it, relieved when it surged upstream, across the shallows. The monster had transformed into a pound plus stockie and I had gathered my senses to take control. It now burrowed in the reeds on my side, heading downstream toward a deep root lined hole, letting the 5 lb tippet and my rod take the strain, it turned back and rolled on the surface. I sat down and stuck out the heavy ali landing net into the flow and the trout obliged by swimming in. Phew! I was shattered and on the verge of slipping in on the sloping bank. I managed a couple of quick photos, removed the mangled barbless fly and slid the net back to the river for the trout to recover, then swim off.

Not the best image, but better than the one with my finger over the lens.

Waiting for a knee replacement, regaining my feet was a struggle, but helped by my sturdy landing net I managed it and continued upstream, rises were few and far between, most coming from beneath bushes, no doubt from previously hooked fish. My Grey Wulff was now changed for a smaller white Mayfly, more of a match for those around me and having reached the deep run, that had been full of fish last week, I began working my fly upstream, but with no rises, or takers.

I moved up to the next section, where a fish rose close to the bank behind a bush and I slid down the bank to stand on the marshy bottom. With overhanging trees and standing cow parsley, this was another difficult cast, but as I edged closer, the fish rose again. I managed to get the fly behind the bush and it came up and I missed the take. The line now became entangled in the cow parsley on my side and as I sorted it out the fish rose again. I tried and missed again. I’m obviously losing my touch. I hadn’t put it down, as it rose again. A few more casts and the fly fell right. It came up and third time lucky, it was on. Not a big fish, I drew the wild brown trout back as it tumbled on the surface, then it was off the hook. As I said earlier, I’m losing my touch.

Getting back up to the top of the bank taught me a lesson, don’t try that again until post operation. I continued upstream, to the weir, but despite plenty of Mayfly about, there were no more rising fish and I turned back. The sun was now behind the trees and a few fish were rising toward the road, but apart from the occasional pause to consider taking them on, I made my way back contenting myself with the fact that I had landed a lucky stockie and for once had not lost any flies.

My first evening visit to an urban trout stream paid off this week with a hectic hour of action, until heavy rain forced me to take shelter, before finally giving up. I had left home in bright sunshine, but the sky was black on the horizon. I had not heeded the forecast of isolated showers, keen to get to the river while Mayfly were still flying, trouble was that it isolated over me!

Walking over the bridge at 7 pm, I could see Mayfly in the air and trout rising upstream. My rod was already set up with a small White Mayfly and made my way past the bus stop to begin fishing from the green. I had just needle knotted on a new 11 ft weight forward leader and was keen to see how it performed. Casting up to a rise, I was impressed to watch the leader punch out, then gracefully float down to the surface. Second cast a fish rose and a small trout was on, but then buried in the weed. Easing the pressure, but keeping up the tension, saw the trout swim out of the other side and the battle commence, until beaten it drifted into my landing net.

Due to the barbless hook, this 8 inch wild brown was quickly returned unharmed to swim off strongly against the flow, although the artificial Mayfly had not survived the head shaking fight and required replacing. Fortunately I had a duplicate and was soon ready to fish again, but the hatch was over, with just the occasional fly floating down.

Suddenly the river was alive with rises again, as another flurry of Mayfly began lifting off, skidding across the surface. Smaller fish were launching themselves out of the water as they chased their prey. On the far side, a larger trout was smacking at the flies, sometimes clearing the surface, its golden flanks flashing as it turned. Protected by an overhanging bush, it remained close to the edge ignoring my imitation each time it drifted by.

Measuring out another couple of feet of line, I managed to bounce the fly off the bank and watched with anticipation as it drifted under the bush. Plop! The fly was gone and the line tightening as I lifted the rod. It boiled on the surface and I stripped line to pull it from the roots. My 7 ft rod took the strain as I rewound the spare line onto the reel, only for a sudden run to strip line off it again, back to the far bank. I could see that this was a good fish for this small river and had my landing net ready, when it dived toward a bank of weed close to my side, but thankfully side strain pulled it round and after a run downstream it was on its side and in the net.

I am afraid that too much adrenaline had caused camera shake and this was the best one that I took, but it is still a pretty fish, these wild trout fat with their Mayfly bonanza.

By the time that I had tied on a small yellow Mayfly, it was spitting with rain, but the trout were still rising and after a couple of missed fish, I moved down to where I heard a better trout rising just upstream of an overhanging horse chestnut tree. It was only rising occasionally and waited for it to come up between the far side and a long raft of weed. Making rapid casts to avoid line drag and the tree, the yellow fly was like a beacon, drifting a yard then being extracted at the last second. The fly was becoming waterlogged by the rain and I blobbed drying powder over it, making false casts, before watching the fly float down, travel a foot and disappear. Wham! I was in again as it ran straight down under the tree, forcing me to keep the rod flat as it fought unseen, the rod bucking and bending. This was not as big as the last and was soon playing it on the reel, bringing it out from cover on the surface to the net.

The light had gone, but the rain was now beating down and after releasing my last captive, I headed for cover and the comfort of my car, then home.

My evening had been saved by a speedy delivery from Barbless Flies, www.barbless-flies.co.uk, a friendly Yorkshire company with the personal touch, that supplied my new leader and fly floatant powder.

Cold winds and torrential rain have kept the brakes on the annual Mayfly Hatch on the River Whitewater this year, but with the promise of warmer weather to come, prospects could change for the better by the weekend. Getting down to the river on the first decent afternoon for weeks, I stood on the road bridge looking upstream hoping to see a few Mayflies hatching, or fish rising, but was disappointed. The river was still slightly coloured and it looked like more rain was on the way.

This was only my second visit since a cold windy open day in April and had tied on a small yellow Mayfly pattern in my optimism. At this time last year, the Hatch was in full flow and I set off upstream in search of rises. A few hundred yards on, the unmistakeable splashy rise of a decent trout, then another further up got my heart racing and I managed to get down into the shallows to wade the last few yards. On the waiting list for a new knee, this was an effort, having to make do with wellies instead of waders.

There was a strong downstream wind adding to the line drag and I needed an accurate cast to reach the first fish under the left hand bank. My back cast caught in the alders above my head and I lost the fly. By the time that I had tied on a replacement fly, the short hatch of a dozen flies was over and my imitation was ignored.

Continuing upstream small yellow mayfly were fluttering across the river and another trout was feeding close to a sunken branch. From the high bank I could see a wild brown of about 12 oz and measured my casts, the first few ignored, while the trout continued to feed as a steady supply drifted down. On my next cast, the trout moved toward the fly, then turned to the right to slurp in one closer, before darting to the left to scoop up mine. It was on! Initially diving beneath the branch, I pulled it out, only for it to start tumbling on the surface, coming close to my bank and the shallows. I had no control and reached forward with my already extended landing net, while the the trout continued to thrash on the surface. It came off and darted back to safety. Not a big fish, but it would have broken my duck.

This part of the river was always a good nursery for juvenile trout, while holding a few rod benders, that only come out from their deep pools, when the Mayfly are on the water. There were still a few crayfish nets secreted along the banks and it is hoped that the reduced number of crays will result in more surviving wild fish.

I continued upstream to the weir, but with no sign of rising fish, I tried my luck with my Blackdevil nymph, casting to likely holding areas and runs.

Casting up between the post of a berm, the line arced round into the eddy as it passed, but I lifted into thin air, the weighted nymph flying back. Too late, or too early? A missed fish all the same.

I saw one more crashing rise on the way back, plenty of fly life of all sizes, but few mayfly. Crossing the road, I entered the next beat, seeing another member Steve wading up to his waist, casting up under the bridge, where fish were rising. He reported netting a 2 lb fish above the bridge at the weekend, which was encouraging news. I continued down to the next pool, seeing several rises among a hatch of small white Mayfly. Removing the nymph, I tied on a bodied Mayfly and cast among the rising fish, only for the fly to be attacked by a small fish, which I missed. A few more tries and a small chub of six inches took a flying lesson before falling off. Move on.

More Mayfly were now in the air and I watched a big trout sucking them in from an eddy among the safety of roots and a fallen tree. If I could get the fly in there, it was unlikely that I would be able to get it out. The sound of another fish rising further down saw me enter the river again, almost falling in, when I used a dead tree for support, it crumbling in my hands as I gripped it. Fortunately I avoided a soaking, my heavy aluminium extendable landing net coming to my aid as I stumbled.

I have had many fine trout from this pool in the past and as I waded through the shallows, a good fish rose among the roots on the left at the top end. Keeping close to the edge, I cast to the area. The fly sat for only seconds before it was engulfed and I was playing a hard fighting trout, that was charging toward the roots. I have been lulled by catching chub lately, this was no chub, the power of a trout is up several levels. It turned and rushed back, rolling in the shallows, before another long run. With a dark back and silvery sides, I was reminded of a seatrout as it rolled again. Tightening down the line, it fought in diminishing circles, until it turned on its side and drifted back to my net.

A sleek wild brown trout of about a pound and a half, that rewarded persistence, a beautiful fish that my camera could not do justice to. The barbless size 12 fell out once the pressure was off and I held the trout facing upstream, until it swam back out of the landing net. Another member Richard had stopped, while I waited for the trout to recover and he extended a welcome hand to pull me up the bank to save my aching knee. My cancelled operation would have been a few days before, so good came of it in the end, as I would not have been able to catch this fine fish, if it had gone ahead.