Although at the present day, more than ever before, fishing in all its
branches has an extensive literature of its own, there is, perhaps, no
subject that requires more careful handling by an author anxious to
interest his readers than dry-fly practice in general, and the sport
obtained by his own rod in particular, during the long trout season. Nor
is it easy to condense within the limit of a single article anything
like full details of, and the actual incidents connected with, his
captures—and also combine references to the delightful environment in
which he is wont to pursue his fascinating art (the most humane of all
sports where killing is concerned), and briefly to other matters, to
embellish his descriptions. But I have done my best in what follows, and
I hope the reader, all the better if he be an expert himself, will in
imagination follow me through the verdant, flower-decked water meadows,
and share the pleasures of an angler’s quest.
Long weeks before the first of April, which is the earliest date dry-fly
sportsmen commence fishing in the Itchen, my preparations were
completed—the eleven-foot “Perfection” split cane rod overhauled by its
makers, and after many years’ hard work made to look like new (a trusty
weapon as good as any angler need possess), was more than once taken
from its case and within doors lovingly waved about as if casting a fly.
An ample supply of well-tied flies was duly received, and on opening
each small box the contents made one smile to look at because they would
certainly be killers, i.e., red quills with gold tags, olives in three
shades of colour as to wings, Englefield’s green quill-bodied flies with
silver tags; gold-ribbed hare’s ear, and Wickham’s fancy, all dressed on
sharp, full barbed, sneck-bend hooks in several sizes, and supplemented
by old flies left over from previous seasons, which, when trout or
grayling are well on the feed, are often accepted as readily as new
ones—which would seem to prove that the fly is not of so much
consequence as some people imagine. But beyond rod and flies, I
attribute my success to always using a _fine_ dressed running line, and
the finest of gut collars, prepared by myself thus: Four strands of
18-inch picked refina natural gut knotted smoothly together, and pointed
with two strands of 18-inch 4x fine drawn gut, forming a length of 2¾
yards, finer all through than usually supplied from shops, and yet
strong enough to hold and play to a finish any trout up to 4 lb. I
mention all this for the benefit of some men who I am certain do not
fish fine enough in the clear Itchen.
All through April the river had a winterly appearance, the fish were not
in condition, the weather unpropitious, and those too ardent anglers who
did try met with poor sport; nor were blank days unknown.
For these reasons I did not make a beginning until May 19th, and it will
somewhat simplify the following details of my dry-fly sport, and save
much unedifying repetition, if I state at the beginning that all of it
was obtained on the prolific River Itchen (at present as much deserving
to be called “the queen of Hampshire rivers” as was formerly the Test),
namely, from two meadows on the east bank above Winchester, where I rent
the exclusive right _ad medium flumen_, but by the usual tacit
understanding between owners of opposite banks, casting all across was
not interfered with; in fact, it happened that no other rod fished
there. It is a great advantage having even a small length of
well-stocked water all to one’s self, and to watch it closely for flies
and fish rising during the morning or evening, and take the benefit of
such knowledge by resuming the rod at the nick of time, thus avoiding
over-fatigue, and perhaps disappointment, while waiting long hours by
the river-side to no purpose.
And by favour, annually granted to me for many years past for a liberal
number of days after June, I plied my rod in the three miles of the main
river, mill, and side streams of the Abbot’s Barton fishery between
Durngate Mill and Headbourne Worthy. Also I was courteously offered
sport in the lower reaches at Twyford and Shawford.
On my opening day, May 19th, at Winnall, a leash of trout weighing 5 lb.
2 oz. was killed. The next time I tried was on June 3rd, for only a
quarter of an hour after sunset, in the much overfished public water
known as “The Weirs,” when a brace, 2 lb. 1 oz., came to hand. On the
13th a brace was caught before noon in my private fishing, weighing 2
lb. 15 oz., and on the 22nd six, scaling respectively in the order of
capture—1 lb. 9 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 5 oz., 2¼ lb., 2 lb., and 1¼
lb.; aggregating 9 lb. 11 oz., and proving the best day’s sport of the
season, although on one of its hottest days. Two days after, in an hour
while the sunset glory was fading, a handsome brace weighing 3¼ lb. was
brought to grass. And during July, in the same limited extent of water,
nearly always about sundown, the following were creeled—_i.e._, on the
1st three fish, 4 lb. 2 oz.; on the 3rd two, 2 lb. 3 oz.; on the 14th
one, 1 lb. 14 oz.; on the 18th one, 1 lb. 2 oz.; and on the 29th one, 1
lb. 14 oz. Also on August 5th one, 1 lb. 9 oz., and on the 8th one, 1
lb. 5 oz.
On July 21st an early train landed me at Shawford, and on entering the
beautiful park where is the seat of Sir Charles E. F., Bart., I turned
short off to the right, and through a tangled undergrowth of wild
flowers, weeds, and nettles, prickly bramble bushes and the trailing
branches of _Rosæ canina_, soon reached the back stream, only to find a
large group of cattle standing in it, tormented by flies, and churning
the water into the colour of milk all the way down, spoiling one’s
chance of fishing. But at the lower boundary of the demesne, where the
main river mingles, it was clear and a few flies floating on it.
Directly I knelt in the sedge a brace of partridges sprang from it and
whirred away. Rooks were noisy in the elms, and from trees on a small
eyot stock-doves told their monotonously mournful tales. But my eyes
were watching a trout under an overhanging branch opposite. At length he
rose and took a small, pale-winged sub-imago fly, and while I tied on to
my fine gut cast the nearest artificial I could select in size and
colour to the natural flies on the water, he dimpled the surface several
times, but at the first wave of the rod down he sank to the bottom.
Nevertheless, after a pause I threw my lure well over him—a yard in
front, so that he might see it. At the first cast he moved, at the
second boldly came up and snapped at it; was well hooked, played, and
netted out, not much disturbing other trout in view, one of which a few
minutes after shared the same fate, the brace weighing over 2 lb. Large
fish are scarce in this fishery at present.
As I crossed over to the lower reach of the chief stream, my steps were
stayed to admire the surroundings: the various stately trees in full
foliage in solitary grandeur, or in groups adorning the emerald sward,
which was profusely embroidered with Flora’s gifts. And on the river
banks were seen the familiar flowers an angler loves, amongst them
“love’s gentle gem, the sweet forget-me-not,” tall, graceful willow
herb, spiked purple loosestrife, meadow sweet, mimulus reflected in the
glassy stream, yellow iris, hemp agrimony, and a crowd of others. The
blazing sun was now near the zenith, and the morning rise of ephemeridæ
at its best; fish were feasting on them freely, not only in their haunts
at the sides, but on the middle, over thick beds of starwort and waving
crowfoot. For two hours I was almost constantly at work hooking and
returning some ten- to eleven-inch fish and killing a leash about a
pound each. It was very warm, and as I neared the small waterfall a
clear space on the hard chalky bottom hidden from view almost tempted me
to bathe; but instead I wetted a leaf of butterbur, and folding it
inside my cap to cool my head, laid the rod aside and quietly sat on a
prostrate tree to rest awhile. But reflecting that I had done fairly
well, and the 2.36 Great Western train was available, I hastily put my
tackle together, interviewed the keeper to show the sport, shouldered
the creel, and arrived at the station just in time.
On July 31st I again had the privilege of fishing in the park. A gentle
wind stirred the leaves to whisper, and it was only pleasantly warm.
While I sat in the garden reach making all ready to begin sport, the
gurgle of the falling water through the six hatches had a soothing
influence on one’s spirit, and taking Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” from my
side pocket I read a few passages, but as that was hardly in form for a
dry-fly fisherman with the clear stream at his feet and fish in view
waiting to be caught, I soon went above the hatches, and from the
cottage gardens on the east side by 11.30 a.m. managed to creel a brace,
and above Shawford Bridge from the west bank, another brace by two
o’clock. Then, as before, I went back by train, and resumed practice in
the evening; but there was no rise until 7.45, when phryganidæ were on
or hovering over the surface of the water, chiefly in mid-channel, and
trout, also grayling, were eagerly on the feed, making a splash,
sometimes “a boil,” as they seized a fly. For a full hour with little
cessation I was casting over them, hooking, unhooking, killing two
brace, or returning fish. Altogether it was a fairly successful and very
enjoyable day; but the four brace scaled only 7¾ lb.
By the courtesy of Alexander P. R——, Esq., I had the choice of a day’s
fishing in his Twyford preserves, and after waiting for a favourable
forecast of the weather, a bright morning and a gentle wind from the
south tempted me to try on August 17th. A survey of the water showed it
to be choked with weeds, some in flower standing out above the surface
or greenly covering the bottom, except in a few places where the force
of the stream had cleared spaces between, showing the chalky bed. Many
dry-fly fishermen dislike such a dense mass of weeds, because it is so
difficult to draw a hooked fish through or over them; but for several
reasons I much prefer a fishery where they are seldom cut to one where
they are shaved close by the chain scythe or torn out by grappling
hooks, leaving little or no cover for the piscine denizens, and
destroying their food; for young weeds are the _habitat_ of larvæ,
gammarus pulex, mollusca, &c., on which trout largely subsist. There are
several inviting seats along the west bank on which one can rest at ease
and watch for rises, or even cast one’s fly from, and also to admire the
panoramic view along the bright water meadows stretching away to St.
Cross, and beyond to historic Winchester, and shut in by undulating
hilly downs on both sides, which ages long ago were probably the banks
of a wide river, an estuary of the sea. Opposite is the church and
pretty village of Twyford, where the remains of a Roman villa can be
visited, and in the churchyard is a famous yew-tree.
From 9.30 a.m. until one o’clock I fished persistently, using small
flies, but except one trout creeled weighing 1¼ lb., only undersized
ones came to hand. There was no evening rise until 7.30, and very sparse
then, but afterwards three trout were landed and put back, and one over
a pound killed to make up a brace. The keeper then coming up to me,
remarked that there had been no May-flies at Twyford this season.
On August 24th I made a good although delayed beginning on the Abbot’s
Barton fishery. After stalking along the east bank from nine o’clock
until nearly mid-day, and casting without once having a touch, hope
waxed faint, and I thought I had made a mistake in choosing the day; but
when the last meadow opposite the new gasworks was reached, a trout in
position close under the sedge and sword-grass covered right bank on
which I stood, was rising and sucking in large dark-winged olive duns as
they floated toward him. I carefully drew back, and assuming the
kneeling and crouching low down posture—also well hidden from view—I saw
with satisfaction that I had not disturbed him from continuing his
repast. But as I am not ambidextrous, it was difficult to place one’s
fly by the right hand the proper distance before him. Trial after trial
was made until he became suspicious and sank to the bottom, but was not
scared away; I could see him plainly. Anon he rose again, but,
fortunately for me, not so close to the sedge. To have made any bungle
in casting now would have been fatal, therefore I felt it to be a
crucial test of skill to place the lure just right. At the first
presentation he took it, and by a gentle turn of the wrist, making a
_draw_ rather than a strike (for my red quill fly was dressed on a 000
hook), he was firmly hooked, and instantly rushing up stream ran out ten
or fifteen yards of line ere I durst attempt to restrain him. And when I
did so, wound the line in, and played from the bowed rod, he turned and
scurried down stream, leaping out once only, but flouncing several times
on the surface, thus helping to exhaust himself. Now was the moment for
masterful pressure to be put on him; accordingly, when I drew back the
line by degrees, and he felt the strain, he turned and headed up stream
in wild affright, and it seemed some minutes before his struggles were
over and he was safely netted out, the gut cast several times twisted
tightly round his gills. He was a splendid trout weighing 2 lb. 13 oz.
Men from the adjacent gasworks during the latter part of their
dinner-hour had been watching behind me, but I was quite unconscious of
their presence until they called out: “That is a nice fish, Sir,” and
crowded round to admire it. About three o’clock another chance offered
lower down at the first wide bend. Two fish, both within reach of where
I knelt, were rising, but only at long intervals—probably their feast on
flies was nearly finished and they had become fastidious, for when, at
the second throw my fly covered the nearest one, he quietly sidled off
under horse-tail weeds. But the other fish was not so shy, and after
casting over him several times he accepted the fateful fly, was hooked
in the tongue, and immediately bolting up stream made fast, for an
anxious minute, in a weed-bed of water celery, from whence, however he
was drawn forth by taking the line in the left-hand fingers and using
gentle but gradually increasing force, while the right hand held the rod
sloping backward from the vertical position, ready to play him when
released. An excellent plan, but not fully effectual until the
unavoidably slack line could be reeled in, the quarry held taut from the
bending rod and drawn gasping into the landing net—a well-conditioned
fish scaling 2 lb. 5 oz. The brace weighing 5 lb. 2 oz. was shown to the
head keeper on my way back. There was absolutely not a single rise
afterwards that I noticed. And another rod had the same experience, but
not the same sport.
I have been particular in describing some of the details of the
foregoing captures, as they are typical instances of dry-fly practice,
and therefore, and also because the space at my disposal is necessarily
limited, I may be excused for shortening what follows.
On September 1st three trout were killed, weighing 1 lb. 5 oz., 1 lb. 9
oz., and 1 lb. 2 oz.
On the 4th two, weighing 1¾ lb. and 1 lb. 10 oz.
On the 11th the vane stood due west, the sky was lowering, and rain fell
at intervals, but a straight stick umbrella sufficed to keep one dry,
and tied to the landing net handle when not in use, is far more
convenient to carry than heavy waterproofs, which at best are heating
and uncomfortable. I recommend fly-fishers to try it. Above the G.W.
railway arch, on the broad shallows and past the “plantation,” grayling
(only in recent years introduced) seem at last to have made their
headquarters, and from eleven o’clock to three p.m. three were
unavoidably hooked and returned, for the lessee of the fishery, Mr. J.
E. B. C——, wishes them not to be taken at present, so that they may live
to increase and multiply. But a leash of trout were caught and creeled
during the time. And as the morning rise was nearly over I slowly
retraced my steps, observant of any break of the surface of the water;
climbed the steep railway bank, crossed over the bridge, passed down the
line for a long distance to the stile, and resumed the rod on the
Winnall side, where, from the last meadow bounded by the ditch, two more
trout were killed, making up 2½ brace, scaling 6 lb. 6 oz. On my way I
noticed a profusion of the coral-like hips of the wild rose, haws on the
hedges, scarlet viscid berries on yew-trees, and beautiful clusters or
cymes of clear red berries like currants on the water elder; also
amongst many other wild flowers, scabious, candy-tuft, corn cockle,
yellow foxglove, clover, ragwort, &c., and, standing erect, _Lysimachia
vulgaris_.
On the 16th a fine trout weighing 1 lb. 14 oz. was hooked and landed
when it was almost too dark to see where one’s fly fell.
On the 19th the wind was northeast, and therefore unfavourable; added to
which in the upper half of the water mudding out was being done by one
man, while another, in a ballast boat, poled it up and down laden with
chalk to repair the banks. This not only disturbed the stream, but
coloured it, and I was about to forego fishing, in despair, when,
looking back as far as I could see clearly, fish were rising. By a wide
_détour_ I carefully got below them, and at once noticed that they were
feeding on nymphæ and sub-imago flies, and the water there was less
turbid, indeed during the men’s dinner-hour it cleared. By two o’clock
two trout, weighing 2 lb. 1 oz. and 1 lb. 6 oz., were tempted to their
fate by my red quill fly, and another soon after, 1½ lb. In the evening,
after sunset, two more were killed, 1 lb. 7 oz. and 1 lb. 9 oz.
On the 27th five were drawn to net, and weighed by steelyard as soon as
landed, and in the order of capture, 1 lb. 14 oz., 1 lb. 7 oz., 1 lb. 2
oz., 1 lb. 9 oz., and 1 lb. 5 oz. As the shadows made by the declining
sun were lengthening swallows were congregating high in the air, looking
like mere specks, and also many were swooping over the smooth river,
snatching with unerring sight from its surface midges and black gnats;
and yet not so later on at dusk, for a house-martin seized my artificial
fly as it was being whirled in the air in the act of casting, and was
fast hooked at the point of the beak, wildly fluttering in alarm until
wound in to the top ring of the rod, there very tenderly handled,
caressed, and released—not much pained or damaged.
On the 29th, after a stormy night, when a great number of eels were
caught in the large iron grating trap at Durngate Mill, through which
the main stream can be strained—a deadly device—I made no attempt to
fish until after luncheon, when in no hopeful mood as to sport (for
thunderclouds were gathering in the distance as black as ink, and a few
premonitory big drops of rain were falling) I waited on the east bank
watching for any movement. A trout rose under the opposite side and
sucked in a natural fly. Many times my lure was presented, with
occasional intervals between. At last he rose to it and fastened,
fighting well, but a losing battle, and was soon brought to grass,
weighing 1 lb. 7 oz. In the evening, when the weather had somewhat
cleared, I went along the west side as far as the Spring Garden lower
hatch, to make a last attempt to catch a goodly trout I had often
observed and cast over. He fed close to a mass of green tussock grass
overhanging the water, and under which was his haunt when idle. The set
of the stream round the wide bend of the river brought floating
ephemeridæ, trichoptera and nocturnal lepidoptera to the tussock, often
touching and even clinging to its blades trailing on the surface; the
wily fish therefore invariably took up one and the same position when
hungry, opening his mouth wide to receive the tempting morsels. It was
difficult for a dry fly to be placed in front of him by the most skilful
angler, for his hook so often caught on the grass, which was tough, and
in pulling the gut broke. I much coveted that fish, and did not like to
be beaten. I had, therefore, a few days previously resorted to the
expedient of having the huge tussock grubbed up and taken away entirely.
Approaching him now on tiptoe with the utmost circumspection, I knelt
within a long casting distance of where he was rising, intently
intercepting brown sedgeflies. I changed the small fly I had on for a
red quill on No. 1 hook, and sent it forward over him in a line with the
natural flies. No notice was taken of it; nor again and again, until,
when a puff of wind diverted it to the right, he moved after it, and
with an audible snap, and instant spring out of water, hooked himself.
For several minutes an exciting time for me followed, and fatal for him,
as he was netted out and killed—a beautifully marked fish, weighing 1
lb. 13 oz.
On the 30th, the last day of the trout season of 1905, an excellent
finish was made in a few hours by the capture of three trout, weighing
respectively 1½, 1¾ and 2¼ lb.
At foot is a concise statement of the above described sport—not so good
as in many former seasons; but to kill an _excessive_ number of fish,
especially on a private fishery, is no longer the object of a dry-fly
purist and sportsman. And it will be noticed that on most days I have
only fished for a few hours, yet quite enough for pastime and
recreation, and the full enjoyment of Nature’s many attractions while
wandering by the peaceful river.
Date. No. of trout. lb. oz.
May 19th 3 5 2
June 3rd 2 2 1
June 13th 2 2 15
June 22nd 6 9 11
July 1st 3 4 2
July 3rd 2 2 3
July 14th 1 1 14
July 18th 1 1 2
July 21st 5 5 0
July 29th 1 1 14
July 31st 8 7 12
Aug. 5th 1 1 9
Aug. 8th 1 1 5
Aug. 17th 2 2 6
Aug. 24th 2 5 2
Sept. 1st 3 4 0
Sept. 4th 2 3 6
Sept. 11th 5 6 6
Sept. 16th 1 1 14
Sept. 19th 5 7 15
Sept. 27th 5 7 5
Sept. 29th 2 3 4
Sept. 30th 3 5 8
—— —— ——
Total 65 93 12
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