Kris Kent takes us to a small stream he knows.
One of the dangers of getting older is that you can get a bit stuck in your ways and become dismissive of ‘the new’. In my roles as public relations officer for The Grayling Society and online communications supremo, unofficial, for The Wild Trout Trust I am a regular user of Facebook and Twitter. I surf the online world of social media, posting and tweeting news items from the WTT and Grayling Society, retweeting and reposting information from our partners, supporters, members and followers. Anything that might be of interest to fishermen and river habitat conservationists. Some of my colleagues at the WTT and Grayling Society don’t see the point. They are quick to write off social media as a pointless waste of time, “why would I be interested in other people’s daily minutia?” Now let’s be honest there probably is a lot of stuff on social media that isn’t that interesting, but that’s life isn’t it. I liken it to going down the pub or to a party. You meet a lot of people and have lots of conversations. Many of those people, and those conversations, aren’t that interesting. But you keep going down the pub and to parties. Why? Because once in a while you do meet interesting people and have interesting conversations. You have to sort through a lot of chaff to get to the wheat. Of course we go down the pub or to parties because we are social beings, generally, we like to spend time with other people. Facebook and Twitter are a great way to stay in touch with people you know and to meet people you don’t. And occasionally something valuable comes out of social media.
A while back I was checking Facebook and Twitter to see if there was anything of interest for the WTT or Grayling Society Pages when I noticed an item of interest from John Aplin. I love John’s contributions on social media, they are short and sweet, to the point. They are mostly about his wonderful little corner of the UK, Dorchester and the River Frome. I’d known of John for years through his tweets and posts and finally got to meet him last year, first at the Grayling Society Symposium and then by the Frome fishing the Home Beat across the water meadows from his home just outside West Stafford. John is a warm and generous man full of stories of fish and fishing, his home full of fishing books and fishing paraphernalia. John was asking if anyone on Facebook/Twitter was interested in joining a small syndicate he was looking to start up, six rods on the Wraxall Brook. I jumped at the chance and immediately sent John a message to say I was in. I also tipped off my fishing buddy Charles as I felt sure he would be up for it.
I wasn’t the only one who jumped. A couple of days later John wrote back to say that he had had so much interest he’d increased the syndicate to ten rods and that both Charles and I were in.
The ‘Little Syndicate’ was born. A few days later a Facebook Group had been set up and I could see who the other members were. Apart from Charles I didn’t recognise any of the other syndicate members. They seemed to be mostly locals and on the face of it a thoroughly nice bunch.
I’ve been a member of various fishing clubs and syndicates over the years. Some very large and some less so. Each one has been very different. Some have been quite social with lots of events, on some you were lucky to see another member from one year to the next either on the river or off. Some were very hands on with regular work parties and opportunities to get your hands dirty, on others there was hired help to do the dirty work.
The Little Syndicate looked to be of the social, hands on variety. John was quick to arrange a work party. An opportunity for all the members to meet one another and to get the brook into shape for the start of the season. Sunday March 1st was agreed and put in the diary. John and Elliott couldn’t wait though and snuck out on the 20th February with chainsaw in hand to get things going. John reassured us that he had left a few twigs for us to deal with.
Charles and I live some way from the Wraxall Brook so Charles offered to drive down if I made my way to his place. It would mean an early start on a Sunday, but if it’s to get wet in a river it’s worth it. As it turned out Charles’ wife would be working nights and he was going to offload the kids on his mother so Charles asked if I would like to come down the night before and have a few beers and an uncomfortable night on the sofa. The extra hour in bed was tempting but it would mean having to undertake manual labour with a hangover. Difficult decision. Then Charles clinched the deal with the offer of a Hursley breakfast. Just down the road from Charles’ place is the most wonderful butchers shop that does proper bacon and top notch sausages. What the hell, I’m in.
As it turned out Saturday was a busy day. Drop off Wild Trout Trust Auction catalogues at Sportfish, haircut, pick up pork pies and fruit cake for Sunday picnic lunch, drop by the West Berkshire Brewery for Saturday night ales then home to load the waders, chainsaw and loppers before heading down to Winchester for boys night in at Charles’. I wasn’t sure I would have the strength for manual labour Sunday.
Fortified with the Hursley breakfast we sped down the highways and byways of Hampshire and Dorset. It was early and the roads were quite. The temperature had dropped back again after a few milder days, mother nature kidding us that spring had arrived. I was glad that Charles was driving after one too many the night before.
The plan was to meet some of the syndicate at John’s house and from there to make our way to the Brook where the remainder would gather. John was in the yard as we pulled in. He did the rounds of introductions. I tried my best to remember everyone’s names but felt sure I’d soon forget. Still they didn’t look like a bad bunch. Hello's out of the way we piled back into the cars and followed John’s pickup past Dorchester and onto Wraxall. When we arrived at the car park most everyone else had already arrived so another round of introductions was required.
After some mooching about chatting and getting to know one another someone started to pull on waders so the rest of us followed suit. Chainsaws, polesaws, pruners and loppers appeared out of the backs of cars along with cans of fuel and packed lunches. The sense of anticipation was starting to build. Someone threw open the gate to the car park and like a field of racehorses we were off. The car park sat high on the hill overlooking the valley. It was a pleasant downhill stroll across a grassy field to the river. The only tricky bit the last furlong through a scrubby bit a woodland where the path had been churned up by the local hunt a few days prior.
Our first glimpse of the brook came as we slid down the last section of the muddy path. I was so focussed on not slipping ass over tip that I didn’t see it till I was in it. A few pictures had been posted on Facebook the week prior and the brook had looked high and muddy. Today it was running low and clear, bright gravels glistening below the rolling current. It cut deep into rich brown soil, the banks lined with ash and willow. It looked perfect.
But as I looked up and down stream you could see the problem. The brook had been deeply loved by a gentleman who had tended it and maintained it putting in large woody debris, weirs and other features. He had let it to a small syndicate who had fished it lightly, although no one had fished it for ten years or so. Sadly the gentleman died and his wife allowed the river to revert to nature. Now this is no bad thing for the fish and other fauna and flora. But it was going to make it tricky for us anglers. Five years on trees had been tossed into and across the river by winter storms, branches reached out from the bank side trees still standing criss-crossing to create an impenetrable roof over the stream.
We divided into three groups. One group would walk down to the bottom of the beat and familiarise themselves with the fishing. One group would drop back and start clearing the river downstream whilst my group would work upstream to the top boundary. We would all meet back at lunch time and swap around so everyone got a chance to do some reconnaissance and to help out with the hard work required.
Now there was no point in just stripping out every piece of woody debris and cutting back every branch and twig. It would make casting easy but would mean there would be no fish to catch, as they say “fish live in trees”. So we tentatively made our way carefully considering every cut and prune and leaving plenty of structure and cover in place to keep the fish happy. The great thing about getting practical like this is that you very quickly get the know the river. Each twist and turn, each riffle and pool, each shallow and each plummeting depth. For a small stream the brook had plenty of very deep pools to offer shelter to a wily trout. I know, I nearly disappeared into a couple of them.
All the hard work meant that by the time lunch came around I was starving. The pork pies and millionaires shortbread I’d bought at the farm shop Saturday and Charles’ ‘real’ coffee were soon wolfed down as we shared tales from the morning session. The work parties were bruised and bloodied from tangles with falling branches, blackthorn and brambles. The reconnaissance team were excited by tempting runs and mysterious pools. Someone had even seen a fish. There was hope.
After lunch I had the opportunity to check out the rest of the brook. There was no path as such so finding your way downstream involved weaving in between trees and bushes, over fallen boughs, tentatively along slippery undercut banks and through waterlogged margins where iris were starting to push through. At every opportunity we would pause to stare down into the stream ever hopeful for the flash of a spooked fish below. By the time we reached the low brick bridge that marks the bottom boundary I was quite puffed. Time for a rest. Near the end we flushed a kingfisher, a brief burst of electric blue as it darted away downstream.
One mystery still to be resolved was the lake. Perched above the river towards the bottom end of the beat is a narrow ribbon of lake. Some years back rainbows had been stocked into it and there were rumours of grass carp. Were there any still resident? We stood and stared but no evidence manifested itself. One member waded into see how deep it was but quickly retreated from the deep silt. I felt sure that something would be cast into the lake at some point to test the theories that abounded. Time would tell.
Before we returned to rendezvous with the others we cleared the last section of river. A narrow deep run, an impenetrable tangle of willow. When we reached the end the challenge was getting out. The banks steep with soft soil that yielded below me. I made a mental note that a grappling iron might be a useful addition for the back pack.
Whilst it had been a pleasant stroll down to the brook that morning it was a whole different matter at the end of the day. Ascending a steep hill with chainsaw in one hand and petrol can in the other was no fun. The only upside being that I could relax whilst Charles drove us home. Back at the cars rain was threatening so we quickly divested ourselves of waders and fleeces and loaded everthing into the boot. We saved the location into the Sat Nav so we could find our way back come the start of the season and off we went. The route home took us over the brick bridge and as Charles manoeuvred past a tractor I took one last look over the wall at the brook.
The only question remaining was how soon after the season starts could I get down? But that’s another story.
Many thanks to John Grindle and Jim Hulland for use of their photos.
Biography:
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.