During the past season I enjoyed the privilege of fishing for grayling
in the very best stocked portions of the Itchen at Twyford and Shawford.
On August 11th, 5 brace were killed; on the 12th, 3½ brace; on the 19th,
4 brace; on the 23rd, 4 brace; on the 26th, 1 brace—their weights
varying from 14 oz. to 1¼ lb. On August 28th the evening was stormy, and
until seven o’clock no signs of flies or of fish breaking the surface of
the swollen, breeze-rippled, and strongly running stream could be
noticed. I was standing near the swampy margin of the west bank above
Shawford Bridge, and with little hope of the prospect for sport
improving, when a single dark olive dun floated down, and just as its
struggles to dry its wings seemed effectual it rose, but fell on the
water again, and instantly a grayling flashed up and took it. Well
hooked and played from the bended rod, it was felt to be a heavy one;
nor could it be much restrained without risk until it had drifted to the
ford, where I was in the act of trying to draw it over the shallow side
to dry land, not intending to use the net, when a man watching from the
bridge, a black retriever at his side, called out, “Shall I come and
land him for you, sir?” At that instant his dog rushed round to the
shallows, and wildly jumping about, repeatedly tried to seize the
fish—in fact, to retrieve it as he would a moorhen. The chance of
hooking the dog was so likely, and the consequent breakage of my tackle,
perhaps losing the fish also, that I promptly used the net handle to
beat him off, and as I landed and unhooked the grayling (afterwards
found to weigh 1 lb. 7 oz.), the dog looked on, wagging his tail and
barking excitedly—possibly he expected praise rather than a beating.
For the next half hour, at intervals, a few dark-winged _Ephemeræ_ were
seen to emerge on the surface. I knotted on to the fine-drawn gut point
of my cast a red quill dressed on a cipher hook, and after many
attempts, baffled by the wind, to present it just right, a grayling that
could plainly be seen in a clear run close under my bank rose to it and
was hooked and brought to net, weighing 15 oz. Another an ounce heavier
soon followed. Afterwards, about 8 p.m., when the wind had lulled, some
sedgeflies hovered over the surface in mid-channel, occasionally dipping
on to it as they dropped their eggs. A larger red quill on a No. 2 hook
was therefore tried, as it was similar in size to the natural sedges,
and, presented by the horizontal back-handed casting method, it sailed
lightly down over the ring of a feeding fish, and when he rose again and
snatched at it he hooked himself, giving three minutes of exciting sport
ere the landing-net secured him, a grayling of 14 oz., making up two
brace weighing 4½lb.
On the 30th, after the total eclipse of the sun in the afternoon, the
evening was dull, and low clouds threatened rain. I fished in the same
place as last. The river was clear but brimful; indeed, here and away
overflowing its banks, and running so wildly that a dry fly cast up
stream in the usual manner immediately dragged, and if thrown across,
the line sagged or bellied, and consequently, whenever a fish took my
fly, it was most difficult, on the slack line, to strike and hook him.
To let the fly drift was easier and the only alternative, and in this
way 2½ brace of grayling, from 10 to 13 inches in length, were creeled
by 8.10 p.m. At which time, having lost my fly in an overhanging branch,
it was too dark to see to tie on another, and I reluctantly had to leave
off. It was particularly provoking, for the fish were then rising in
that reckless way they often do for a brief time at dusk.
Next evening my practice was between the bridge and the lower boundary
of the Twyford fishery on the west side, and for once in a way all the
conditions an angler wishes for were favourable: the smooth, clear, and
sun-lighted stream reflected white cumuli clouds and the azure sky;
flies were in the air, which the _Hirundinidæ_ in graceful curves of
flight and with unerring sight were intercepting, while olive duns, in
straggling, intermittent groups, were floating down, and fish taking
them eagerly. And to complete one’s satisfaction, a gentle breeze from
the west made casting easy. The successful fly of yestereve, a red quill
on a 000 hook, was again used, and from 6.30 to a little after 8 p.m.
four brace of grayling, scaling from 12 oz. to 1 lb. 5 oz., were hooked,
played, and brought to grass, besides several returned. And a larger
grayling escaped by the small hook working out just as the net was
nearly in position to thrust under him. There is no necessity to further
describe this evening’s very good sport than to say that for the one and
a half hours I was almost constantly at work, and that the fish rose and
fastened to my artificial fly as readily as they did to the naturals;
but with so good a rise of duns there were, of course, ten chances to
one against the red quill. Bearing this in mind, the sport could
scarcely have been better.
On September 2nd sport was greatly interfered with by horses drawing
carts, vans, &c., passing through the ford, and as it was Saturday
night, the drivers sometimes stopped midway to refresh their horses,
wash wheels, &c. At another time a boy on the back of a tired horse that
had done his week’s work was made to stand awhile in the ford for the
benefit of his legs, and now and again the boy, evidently delighted to
be riding, would take a turn from shore to shore, and once he began to
splash up stream until I remonstrated. And twice a lumbering
watering-cart was slowly filled from a bucket dipped into the river.
With all these interruptions one’s patience was much tried, as I had no
chance of fishing until about 7.30 p.m. I should have gone elsewhere had
I not noticed that within a few minutes after each disturbance had
temporarily ceased a shoal of about a dozen grayling came on to the
churned-up gravelly bottom to feed, probably on crushed or crawling
larvæ, snails, &c. I resolved, therefore, to bide my time, and when all
was quiet again fish began to rise, freely taking _Trichoptera_ as they
touched or floated on the surface of the smooth stream, and at intervals
my counterfeit fly, each time with fatal effect, for when I left off a
leash of beautiful 11 to 13-inch grayling, as bright as silver, lay on
the grass at my feet. And while they were being arranged in the creel
for presentation to a friend, embellished with the wild flowers, mimulus
and willow-herb, the clock of Twyford church slowly tolled out the hour
of eight. Twilight was passing into darkness; Mars, the evening star,
low down in the south-western sky, showed large and luminous; birds were
mute—the silence was oppressive.
The evening of September 12th was bright, rather cool and windy, but at
6.40 black gnats were dancing in mazy groups under the boughs of trees
and pale midges around my cap as I stood near the poplar-tree above
Shawford Bridge. The river was very full and flowing swiftly, but smooth
and favourable for dry-fly practice. Many small trout were unavoidably
hooked and time was lost in putting them back, but one weighing 1½ lb.
was kept, because an invalid friend wanted it, and I was not likely to
fish in this part of the river again until the trout season would be
over. Half an hour afterwards grayling were rising to dark-winged olive
duns; I changed my fly for the Englefield quill pattern with silver tag,
dressed on 0 hooks, and by a little after eight o’clock it had tempted
to their fate three brace, measuring 10 to 11½ inches, when I had to
hurry away to catch my train. It was very pretty sport, and a good
wind-up of the foregoing ten evenings’ sport and pastime, on each
occasion obtained within two hours, and aggregating 30½ brace.
On October 3rd, at noon, many large grayling had worked up to the
shallows under the pretty little weir over which the water from the
Shawford House garden reach was falling in a glassy cascade. The
overhanging trees prevented overhand casting, but, by kneeling and
crouching low, my fly could be sent forward over them. It was not
noticed at first, but at the third essay it was snatched at, and the
grayling hooked: fortunately he turned, and rushing zigzag down stream
without disturbing the others, was followed and netted out. After
prudently waiting a time, the weir was again quietly approached, and
still the grayling were seen there, but now, more on the alert, rising
to olive duns. My very poor imitation was nevertheless taken at the
first throw as it lightly dropped in the white froth and among the
air-bubbles under the waterfall, and a grayling well hooked and
landed—his desperate struggling causing the other fish to scurry away
out of the pool. It was satisfactory to know, while consuming an _al
fresco_ luncheon which followed, that a handsome brace was already in
the creel—indeed, it gave a zest to appetite.
Lower down, where the broad water is divided by the first islet, the
narrowed channel is a favoured feeding place for grayling. They were now
darting up to the surface, taking floating flies—iron blues they looked
like—but to pass along the bank would disturb them. I therefore several
times let my dry fly drift down, and at last it was effective in
bringing another fish to hand. About 4 p.m. the sparse rise of
_Ephemeræ_ was over, nor did they come on again until an hour after
sunset, when dark-winged olives in considerable numbers were on the
wind-rippled stream under the low-branching trees at the upper end of
the mill race, where casting was almost impossible, but in an eddy one
grayling could be tried over, and he came to grief, the two brace for
the day scaling 4 lb. 2 oz.
The morning rise on November 3rd did not begin until about 11.30, and
only lasted for two and a half hours. On the lower reach of the main
stream in the park several small rings and splashes were seen on the
glide above the second island, such as denote grayling busily taking
surface food, but they were many times cast over before my 00 red quill
was taken and a fish hooked, who instantly furrowed along the top of the
water to the opposite side, and made vain attempts to rub the hook out
in a shallow weed-bed; then when held firmly from the rod and played he
repeatedly, as if in wrath, turned wildly over and over on the surface
(grayling seldom or never spring _out_ of water as trout do), and being
thus exhausted and before he could take another turn, as they sometimes
do when apparently dead beaten, was drawn near enough to be netted out.
Almost under similar conditions another grayling was shortly after lured
by the same fly and killed—the brace weighing 2¼ lb.
Higher up, twenty yards in the rear of the first islet, a large grayling
was observed in a clear bay behind weeds, and, save for the gently
waving movement of his tail to maintain his equipoise, showing no signs
of life—“Glued to the bottom and very little use to cast over him,” an
angler would say. Nevertheless, in a desultory sort of way I did send my
red quill over him, and his head slightly moved up. Again my fly was
floated over, and this time he came to inspect it, paused, and retired.
I also retired some thirty or forty yards lower down, and under the dry
sedge bordering my bank managed to hook and land an 11-inch grayling.
Then I quietly worked up again to the beforementioned big one, and by a
long throw deftly placed my fly a yard in front of him. Like a shadowy
flash he boldly rose, touched the fly, and drowned it, no doubt seizing
it submerged unknown to me, for in the act of recovering my fly it
firmly hooked him, and after a well-fought battle he was safely landed,
and, held on a steelyard, weighed 1 lb. 5 oz. Then at the extremity of
the park where the two streams meet a grayling could be seen quiescent
under the opposite branches, but, as before, an experimental cast
tempted him to rise from his lethargy and snap at my fly, when, well
hooked, and after giving exciting sport, he was brought to bank, under 1
lb. in weight.
On four other days in November my sport aggregated 15½ brace, and on
seven days in December to finish the season, 19½ brace.