Get just a little excited when you go fishing? We do and so does our friend Kris Kent
As a kid did you ever have that moment when you got so excited everything went a bit pear shaped? I remember the Christmas that I couldn’t sleep at all Christmas Eve as I was so excited about the bike that was hidden downstairs. When I was eventually allowed downstairs to open presents the adrenalin overtook me. I got so hyper I was almost sick before mum had to take me back upstairs to calm down. It was several hours before I was fit for anything. It happened again when Dad took me to buy my first fishing rod. I think it was the anticipation of the moment and the
moment itself that drove those adrenalin levels over the top.
It all came back to me during a recent trip to the river. I was working in Winchester so dropped by my friend Charles’ for dinner and a chin wag. As usual, and much to his wife Caroline’s annoyance, the conversation turned to fishing. My start to the season had been very slow with not much hatching and only a few fish rising. Charles on the other hand had managed to time his trips to the river to coincide with some good hatches, especially just recently of the Mayfly. The fish had already locked on to the Mayfly and Charles had had a few good fish. He was planning to
head out the following evening and asked if I’d like to join him as his guest. Silly question.
I managed to finish in Winchester the next day a little earlier than planned and made my way over to the Loddon, not far from Basingstoke. Charles called as I arrived at the car park to say he was running a little behind schedule but to get started without him. I said that would be rude but I would wander down and do some reconnaissance. I got changed out of my suit and climbed into my waders. They had been in the back of the car for a couple of warm days after I fished my way down
to Winchester and they smelled a bit ripe. A combination of damp dog and sweaty fisherman. Not nice. I strung up my soft action 8’9” 3 weight Sage Circa rod with a Hardy Bouglé reel and, anticipating a Mayfly hatch, loop to looped a stiffish tapered leader to the Luke Bannister small stream fly line. The loud click on the Bouglé really annoys my fishing buddies who prefer a silent reel. The stiffish tapered leader helps turn over the big Mayfly patterns and stops the tippet twisting. One final check to make sure I had everything and I headed off.
The walk to the river is relatively short but always eventful. This time I almost bumped into a young deer grazing quietly behind the barns. Don’t know who was more shocked. Another was lurking in the meadow. The evening was perfect. The air had freshened after a thundery downpour, but there was still a little humidity, and the breeze had dropped away. The sky was grey with more showers threatening, but there was the occasional brighter interlude when the weak evening sun struggled to break through. As I paused to open the gate into the meadow I suddenly noticed
them. Thousands upon thousands of Mayfly. They weren’t spinners dancing but freshly emerged duns heading into the trees to rest and mature ready for the rigours of mating. My heart started to beat a little faster, the hairs on the back of my neck stiffened. My pace slowed as I approached the small brick bridge over the Loddon and then I heard them. Fish rising. Not just one or two. There was one just under the bridge rising steadily. Then I picked out two or three rising above and several more rising below the bridge. I hadn’t seen the river yet but I could hear each fish clear as a bell. The heart beat faster and still faster. I didn’t want to spook the fish so I sneaked across the bridge, as well as anyone my size can sneak. It seemed to have worked because as I turned to look back at the river I could see ripple after ripple spreading out and intersecting as fish after fish rose to intercept the Mayfly duns. The calm moist air was slowing the emerging Mayfly down and the trout were taking full advantage of this feast resting on the rivers sticky surface.
The problem was, where to start. I was spoilt for choice. As I drew off some fly line I scanned up and down stream trying to distinguish between the smaller and the better fish. My promise to not start until Charles arrived had completely passed from my mind. I dropped downstream a few yards. The bank is higher here with several large hawthorns and lots of brambles for cover. I snuck into position. A good fish was rising hard up against the far bank almost under some cow parsley where the flow was funnelling the duns down into a narrow feeding lane. I watched the fish rise
a couple of times. It was lying deep and coming up to hit the Mayfly with a slashing rise. It wasn’t elegant but it was effective. The heart beat faster and still faster. My first attempt at a cast snagged some vegetation just in front of me. The next two found the hawthorn and brambles behind me. I adjusted the angle and caught the willow that overhung the far bank on the fourth cast. The fifth cast landed on the river midstream but the fly line snagged a branch hanging low over my bank and the fly immediately dragged. The sixth and seventh casts were grabbed by the hawthorn and brambles behind me and I lost the fly. I tied on another JT CDC Mayfly and flicked it out. It wrapped around the rod and line. Untangled I tried again. The next cast landed the fly just upstream of the chosen fish. As it landed a smaller fish, so far unseen, shot out and grabbed the fly. It wasn’t the fish I was after but at least it was a fish. I released the fish and checked to see if the original fish was still rising, miraculously it was. I managed to land the next cast like a ton of bricks right on the
head of the fish just it rose again. This did put it down.
As I reversed out of the brambles I realised I was shaking. The adrenalin was pumping, so much was the excitement of the hatch. I tried to catch my breath, unsuccessfully. As Charles arrived I was intent on the fish rising under the bridge. I caught that fish, eventually. But in the process I snagged the willows three times on the front cast and lost two more flies. The more I tried to calm down and gather myself the worse my fishing got.
Charles and I watched the fish for a while. The fish weren’t holding station and gently sipping in the duns as they drifted past. They were hugging the bottom or lurking under the banks and shooting up or out to intercept duns. I’ve noticed that fish often do this during the early days of the Mayfly hatches. As the hatches progress the fish seem to become more confident, or just more greedy, and move out to take up feeding positions where they can maximise the number of flies eaten and minimise the energy they have to expend. These first pools on the beat are fished hard as they are close to the car park so these fish may have already seen a lot of rods fishing the Mayfly.
As we progressed upstream I started to calm down a little. Perhaps it was the walk, maybe it was Charles’ calming influence. As I calmed down my fishing improved a little and I lost fewer flies. We caught fish here and there, a few game wild brown trout and a few bigger stockies. The fish seemed spooky and were easily put down so you had to get it right first cast or suffer the consequences. A few corner pools held good numbers of fish rising but most of the fish were strung out along the long runs or tucked in around features - overhanging trees, back eddies, deep scours,
below fallen trees. I became fixated with a better fish rising just above a very large fallen tree that bridged the river. It was a difficult spot. Lots of convoluted flows and a very short drift. I ended up balanced on a log, arm outstretched with just the fly touching the water, Tenkara style. It wasn’t elegant but it was effective, fourth drift down the fish came up from the depths and smashed the fly. It was then that I realised I hadn’t thought about how I would land the fish. With the fish below me on a very short line I had to stop the fish running under the fallen tree whilst manoeuvring into a position where I could slip a net under the fish. I nearly fell in twice before the fish was safely netted, unhooked and returned. The fish had distracted me such that I had now lost Charles. I eventually found him on a deep corner pool trying to connect with one of the many fish rising there. He had missed several smash and grab rises but was fixated. He persisted but by now the fish
knew he was there and they weren’t playing the game.
As the hatch started to peter out we found that even where fish weren’t rising a thoughtfully delivered cast into likely spots would often bring up a fish or two. As the evening started to fade we found ourselves just below a wooden footbridge. Three fish were rising in front of us and they looked a better stamp of fish. We stood side by side and took it in turns to cover them. I took the first and Charles the second before the third fish evaporated away. We had a few more casts and two more stockies, which went home with Charles, before we couldn’t see our flies anymore and the hatch finally ceased.
It was a long walk back across the meadows to the cars. We both agreed that the adrenalin had got the better of us to start with and that we hadn’t fished as well as we might have. But we retired happy and contented and looking forward to another visit, very soon.
Kris Kent has been fly fishing and trotting for brown trout and grayling for over 20
years in the UK, Europe and Scandinavia. He is PR Officer for the Grayling Society
and helps out The Wild Trout Trust with their online communications and events.