Graham Waterton visits the Bourne Rivulet to try some fly patterns and to catch some trout.
In the middle of May, between days guiding and before the arrival of that giant of the olive family, which would distract me and clients for weeks, I was asked to fish The Bourne Rivulet. It is the highest upstream tributary of the River Test and made famous by the writings of Harry Plunkett Green in his classic book Where The Bright Waters Meet. It is only a few miles long, the effective fishing these days being from its junction with the Test at Testbourne upstream to a little above the viaduct at Chapmansford Farm. Known in the 1920s for its fast flowing, crystal clear water, luxuriant ranunculus and a plentiful population of invertebrates it produced a head of large beautiful, genetically pure, wild brown trout.
A combination of abstraction, pollution, poorly judged and unnecessary stocking and the apparent disappearance of the freshwater shrimp on which the trout relied saw the stream reduced to a fishless trickle but over recent decades and with the dedication of a devoted few the stream is well on its way to recovery.
I had not fished this beat before and was thrilled at the chance of finding those big beautiful Bourne brownies.
I met my host at the bottom of the fishery and having split the beat I took a wide arcing route across the water meadows to my start point just above a style. I am pleased to say that my host trusted me to fish in whatever style I felt was appropriate so no rig or fly was selected. I intended to sit on the style and watch. As my second foot landed over the style on the far side of the stream a small sipping rise sent a tiny ring downstream. I froze. I was only a yard or so downstream of him and in full view.
Very slowly I sat on the style and watched. The fish was lying behind a short but wide root of ranunculus. The two veins of water having been split by the weed met in a swirl of water which had polished a hole in the gravel. It was in this hole the fish was hanging. This was one of those lies that fish don't hold unless they're feeding keenly. He could have slipped close to the weed or dropped to hug the gravel and held those spots with much less effort but he was working hard in the current, a sure sign he felt there was enough food being channelled into his lie to warrant such effort. He was regularly swinging left and right to take something sub surface and then he rose again. Quickly but with only enough effort to push his nose out, he took the fly and dropped back to his lie. For the second time I did not see what he came up for and there was no discernible hatch. I had seen some small olives and some small dark sedges, but nothing in any numbers. I could put on a nymph but what nymph? I put a couple of yards of new 7x tippet on my tapered leader and while doing so, he rose again. That was enough, out came the dry fly box.
I desperately wanted to put on a BWO, Plunkett Greene's favourite but this was half way through a cool May, not July. This fish was not on a single fly feeding obsession. It was however a strong feeder, its lie had indicated this and its feeding movements both surface and sub surface confirmed it.
I don't mind admitting I do not know the given names of half the patterns in my box. I select by size and shape and colour and what I'm trying to imitate, not by name. There is a row of 16 and 18 dark hackled and dark winged flies good for BWO and Iron Blue hatches on the chalkstreams and as the 'little dark job' so often required on freestone rivers. One of the most effective for me is an iron blue dun pattern. I'm sure an Adams would have done but this fly's little red butt, was just shouting to me, so on went a size 16.
Since fishing in New Zealand I try to follow their doctrine of the importance of the first cast. In this instance I needed to move downstream by a yard or two to get a simple overhead cast between two bushes behind me. The cast would need some slack line as the two joining streams ran faster than the smooth hump of water which ran over the weed and on which the fly needed to land added to which, between me and the fish was a second fast seam under my bank. I walked on my knees, pulled out the right amount of line, flick rolled it all out and with one overhead cast sent it on its way with a good dose of wiggle. Now although I am a disciple of the first cast theory I have also come to understand that it doesn't always work. And it didn't. It was a crap cast. It fell short and a real messy looking snake of green plastic drifted downstream.
As a guide I often find when the first cast is short, so many clients then strip off another yard or two, cast again and line the fish. Did they misjudge the distance? Generally not, they just cast badly first time. I felt confident I had the right length of line, I just needed a better cast. The next one was damn nearly perfect. The fly sat up and slid ever so slowly over the hump. The fast water slowly unwound the slack line. I had another few feet of drift before it dragged. As the fly drifted over the fish he didn't immediately move ... just sort of fidgeted and then as the fly passed him he slid back and up, watching the latest mouthful get away from him. In that split second I fooled him. In an instant he turned, rose in the water, sipped it down and turned again to return to his lie. That moment never ceases to amaze and thrill me. A quick, gentle but firm lift and after a few tense minutes as he zipped upstream and down with the speed and agility only wild fish have, he was in the net. As fit and fat a wild brownie as I can ever recall catching. It was all of two pounds and just beautiful.
Once quickly recorded for you and posterity, he was swimming and in less than two hours, back on the same spot and feeding again.
I continued slowly upstream with a daft smile on my face looking for another. This time I found a fish glued to the bottom in a spot which required it to expend little effort to maintain its position. No sign of feeding but a wild fish, even a satiated one, doesn't often turn down the trouty equivalent of the 'waffer thin mint' . From the nymph box I sought inspiration and it came in the form of a #16 WHM.
I had overheard on twitter (is that right?) that a fly from the north was getting a following and through Stuart Minnikin was put in touch with Matt Eastham, its originator. He very kindly sent me a few. Its full name is the White Head Melanist. Pretty much much tells you what it is but it is certainly not a simple white bead head pheasant tail.
This nymph in the last month or so has worked for me on the chalkstreams and the freestone rivers of the South West but I am well short of my own full testing period. Suffice it to say, it seems to work. Originally designed to be visible in dirty water it seems to work well in clear water and in good light conditions. Could it be the air bubble theory or perhaps the salmon fishers mantra 'bright day, bright fly'.
This time the first cast failed several times mainly as I was misjudging depth but having not spooked it I kept casting. In typical fashion, the exception to the first cast rule worked and on the fourth or fifth cast and for a reason only known to that beautiful pound brownie it shot to the right a few inches and grabbed Matt's little wonder.
Later, as the light started to go, I tempted a third to the same dry fly, larger than the second but not as big as the first.
The most memorable days are not made up of one event or experience but a combination and blend of many. It was good to be on this famous, gorgeous and fast recovering river. The day was additionally memorable as it was the first really warm day of the year. The first fish was there right in front of me, giving all those 'what to do signals' we need. That iron blue dun waved at me from the box and Matt's invention begged for another road test. The fish played their part and I played mine.
That daft smile stayed with me all the way home.
Graham Waterton is an angler and guide. Visit his website at Stickwithoutbrains