Oliver Ringsby-Burgess had a hunch about a stream, did it hold trout?
I am extremely fortunate that due to my mother’s Scandinavian heritage I was able to spend at least three weeks every summer holiday chasing roach, perch and native crayfish around rural Sweden armed with little else than a hazel stick, line, hook and a muddy fistful of worms.
One thing that always stayed with me from these young adventures was the liberal approach the Swedes take towards trespass and ownership, both legally and socially. It was not uncommon to walk out of my Grandparents’ front door and just wander all day long around lakes and up streams with little or no care to where I was going, or who owned the land. In fact on the few occasions that I did meet a “landowner”, they would genuinely be more interested in how the fishing was going than chasing me off their property.
This attitude towards the ownership of natural resources has stayed with me through my graduation to “proper” fly fishing, game shooting and stalking and although I would never condone any form of poaching for personal and material gain, I have to admit to harbouring a mischievous side when it comes to fishing small rivers.
This dark side to my character was recently rekindled when an acquaintance in my former local pub in rural Northamptonshire informed me of a local legend regarding wild brown trout being caught in a small stretch of the Upper Nene (apologies to readers from Cambridgeshire, but in Northants it is most definitely pronounced “Nenn”). I was hooked, and that evening was spent scouring internet forums for any evidence of the mythical Northamptonshire brownies.
After sifting through more than a few EA reports and parish newsletters, I finally happened upon a Tenkara forum that detailed a particular stretch of the Upper Nene that showed great promise, and crucially included a number of detailed maps and photographs.
Now in fairness the forum only showed pictures of Tenkara caught chub and perch, but the water looked gin clear and definitely felt “trouty” so the die was cast and an adventure needed to be planned.
The next morning I rang my usual piscatorial partner in crime Will Metcalfe, a straight talking Yorkshireman who now resides in the slightly less fishy Brixton, to engage his assistance in our first foray. I must claim to being slightly selfish in this, as although I am very adept at scrambling down overgrown banks and under barbed wire fences, Will is by far the more gifted angler and I would need all of his fish whispering talents if we were to be successful in locating the wily SalmoTrutta.
That Saturday morning we met at an undisclosed location in a village I knew from my youth, with a blue sky, light cloud and an even lighter breeze – perfect. We walked from the cars to a mill pond we had located on an old OS map and immediately we felt a palpable sense of excitement, there in the crystal clear waters were two decent sized perch actively hunting a shoal of small roach no more than 10 feet away.
We scrambled to set up our tackle and inevitably Will was first off the mark so I sat down on the bank and watched him wade into the pool and gently flick his gold head PTN up stream. Silence…nothing…..another short cast and BANG Will lifted up his rod tip and I saw a flash of silver dancing in the shallows. After an embarrassingly short fight Will was beaming with pride at his palm sized but very healthy looking roach, not a trout but a very positive start.
I slipped into the water and moved up stream under a low concrete bridge to take my turn and gingerly fished up river for about 15 yards until we reach a likely looking pool just round a tight bend. After a couple of casts I stepped back to let my companion have a go, and after three casts his line went tight and took a sharp right tearing through the surface with a sound like ripping paper before going slack. “God knows what that was but felt big” was the sanguine response to his misfortune, and from the bend in his rod I had to agree.
We leapfrogged up the river for about an hour with Will catching another small roach on a nymph, before we both got charged by a rather territorial jack pike in chest deep water (now I don’t care how tough you are, but seeing any pike coming towards you in water that deep will give anyone the willies).
The river was definitely getting deeper and narrower by this point and we were well out of the village, although due to the steep overgrown banks it was getting increasingly hard to tell. Then all of a sudden we heard the sound that every Commando Fisherman dreads to hear “Oi!!” coming from an irate farmer over the nettles high above.
Now at this point my survival instincts kicked in and I quickly told Will to keep his Northern mouth shut, and in my best RP english I engaged the farmer in a reasonable discussion regarding public access on this stretch of the river. The farmer remained unconvinced by our right to fish (to be honest I wasn’t 100% sure this far up) however he was utterly convinced that we were scaring the horses 200 yards away so we decided to avoid an argument and clambered out on the footpath side of the bank and declining the farmer’s offer to “come with him” we made our way back to the village to find the pub and have a lunchtime de-brief (later investigation via the EA proved that we were well within our rights to be there).
Over a pint of best and a sandwich in the local hostelry we studied the ancient OS map and decided that there was another likely looking public access stretch just downstream from the village and after heaving our sweaty waders back on we headed to the nearest bridge to find a way down to the bank.
The bank on this stretch was even more overgrown than before, however the water looked even better, so after waiting for a couple of cars to pass we acrobatically jumped the 10 feet down into the water and once more began our stealthy move upstream.
By now it was mid-afternoon and the fishies were definitely not playing ball, including a rather frustrating perch of about a pound that ignored every fly that was trotted passed its nose. We persevered round the narrow twists and turns of this deceptively long stretch and marvelled in the hidden world that was being revealed to us, punctuated by the electric flash of a diving kingfisher.
That kingfisher turned out to be a good omen, and it wasn’t long before Will was whispering “there's a hatch starting here” which heralded a quick change to size 18 Klinkhammers and a renewed sense of purpose. Very soon the surface started to pockmark with the tell-tale signs of feeding fish, and we took it in turns to cast upstream to likely rises giving Will the spectacular trophy of a two inch fry that was dwarfed by the size 18 fly.
By now the light was fading and I was becoming more determined to catch a fish, any fish and my more intense concentration rewarded me with an impossibly small roach. Although the fish looked tiny in my not overly large hands I was as pleased as punch.
This proved to be the last “rod-bending” action of the day, however whilst wading up the last stretch back towards the mill pond where we started we both stopped dead in our tracks as a large shadow drifted out from under the right hand bank. “Is that a trout” I whispered, which brought an “I think so, it’s not a chub” from my accomplice, unfortunately just as I was bringing my rod to bear the shadow flicked its tail and sailed right passed us downstream.
Now my head still tells me that it was probably a chub despite Will’s assurances, however my heart knows that it was a trout and we will be back to prove the point another day.
Like many people I enjoy reading the stories in the sporting press about chasing bonefish and permit across the flats in exotic locations, and I really do hope to one day fulfil that dream. But as an angler this adventure reminded me of all the untapped sport and potential to be found much closer to home on our own doorsteps, and with a little research and a bit more gumption all of us can find the hidden corners and streams of this green and pleasant land and engage in a little adventure of our own.