Effective vulgarity wins over artistic romance for me.

I suppose that right now I should be regaling a tale extolling the virtues of fishing a pristine chalk stream using a beautifully crafted centrepin reel and of how the line flows from the spool like silk, before my vintage style hand made topper float is pulled from sight by a lady of the stream. But I can't! I simply can't, as the truth is I tried to fulfill this romantic notion that I had created in my head and failed dismally. It wasn't that I didn't try and it wasn't that the fish weren't there, because they were. It is just a simple case of I am no trotter! and the worst of it is that I have the technique and the skills to send a float sailing down stream smooth as I like.The bare fact is that after very little trying on my part and only a few finger sized fish, I discarded the artistic and embraced the vulgar. Within an hour of arriving on the river Itchen my float rod was set aside and a forty two gram block end feeder crashed into these hallowed waters shattering the tranquility forever.

By playing to my strengths and fishing a way I felt more comfortable I turned what I felt was going to be a bad morning on its head instantly. I picked a swim no angler trotting in their right mind would fish, loaded an almost gross feeder full of wriggling goodness and let rip. Straight away dividends was paid; every cast the tip rattled round attached to one of the hordes of grayling nailed to the opposite bank.

I think to say the water was shallow and clear was an understatement. As I was fishing a deeper gully on the exit of a bend far across the river, I had a huge shallow mound no more than a foot deep which extended so far from the bank that I reckon not many anglers would have bothered with this one. But temptingly all across the shallows if you looked hard enough you could see small to medium sized grayling holding in indents and behind patches of weed.

I  was happily enjoying regular sport from grayling, but  I knew it was only a matter of time before another interloper shoved in, so I wasn't disappointed when I struck and something silver shot from the depths like a cruise missile. Every time I see this happen I am always amazed. Trout anglers pay a fortune and invest huge amounts of time to chase sea trout on rivers throughout Wales and the South, often failing to catch one for huge amounts of time, and here I am lobbing maggots out wholesale and the damn things can't get enough. Six of these deranged fish took my baits in the first swim alone and everyone made such a fuss it was unreal.

"The worst day on the Itchen is like the day of a lifetime on any other river" someone said to me the other night regarding this river and he is exactly right. This was exactly why we upped sticks and left an area that was producing constant bites and insane amounts of fish. We hadn't travelled all this way to just catch loads of average sized grayling and a few sea trout. We wanted to catch something special and with the Itchen setting such a high bar for what is special, it was a case of getting onto the area that is capable of producing such a fish.

With that in mind we dropped down to fish the gin clear run off the weir pool. I have fished this area a few times before and have only ever caught trout and grayling, but I do know from other sources that it contains some very special fish. Though what I already knew hardly prepared me for what I saw. At the tail of the run where the bottom shallowed towards the surface, a shoal of two to three pound chub hung in the flow. Two to three pound chub aren't that special you will think, and you're right, but they provided a handy point of reference against which to size the other inhabitants of this area.  One of those monster chub looked to be at least twice as big as the little two-pounder, so was maybe five to six pounds. The other one was markedly bigger than the other! So conservatively could have been seven plus even in late summer condition and it wasn't even the chub which were that shocking, it was the roach.

Three roach all over two pounds repeatedly circled along a very specific route, stopping behind various clumps of weed to rest intermittently. At first I thought they were immature bream like the ones that were hanging out in a slack upstream but soon enough their red fins became obvious and they morphed into roach. It was Andy that bagged this swim and as we watched the roach and chub, two huge koi carp rose from the weeds to make our eyes bulge even more. Not wanting to possibly detract from what Andy hoped to do I headed off above the weir to fish what I consider to be both the best and worse swim on the entire fishery.

The M27 swim is where the oasis-like feel of the Itchen and reality collide. It is by my own admission the noisiest swim I have fished ever. The east bound carriageway thunders constantly over the river on the fish-able side and between the sounds of wailing engines and truck sidings flapping in the wind, you can barely hear yourself think. Add to that the fact that every truck that passes by quite literally shakes the ground for hundreds of feet and you have a very strange experience involving a beautifully river and the UK transport network.

Though as bad a place as it is, there is no doubt that it is a fish magnet. My theory is that the constant thunder of traffic, shelter of concrete and deep run all serve to make a very safe haven for resting salmon and shoals of everything alike. Once ensconced the feeder was dutifully filled and swung into the flow. The first fish to oblige were just mediocre grayling, but soon enough the tip hoofed round and a real dirty fighter was on the line.

This very long and lean chub did everything it could to get into every weed bed in the entire swim but patience wore it down and eventually it went into the net, where it did the oddest vibrating I have ever seen from a chub. That fish released upstream I again cast to the exact same spot and this time I never got the rods on the rest. If the bite was savage and sharp the fight was unbelievable. I at first thought I'd hooked another salmon but an amazing cartwheel jump revealed a big brown trout was the culprit.

After the trout the swim seemed to die a death, though this did coincide with the sun being at its highest. It was around then that I got the call from Andy who had been persevering with those infuriating chub and roach. He had on the float hooked and lost the biggest of all the chub in the weir run off. I know the feeling he just gone through only too well. You hook a huge fish in very pacey flow and the damn thing just holds flank on, with the whole pressure of the river on it before flicking its tail and sticking far too much strain on your very light outfit.

Not long after this I too dropped down to the weir and fished above him. Though honestly I should have known better with all the bream around in the swim. From the moment my rig went in those dammed bream knew the food was around. Their whole demeanor changed and I watched time and time again as they circled round my bait picking up freebies. It was not them that I wanted but the single large roach that had broken away from its companions and joined up with the bream. But that was never going to happen! The moment I looked away the rod was nearly wrenched into the river by a rather dozy bream. It was however very interesting to see what happened when the hooked fish panicked. The shoal broke up flying in all directions, only to reform and wait off down stream the roach included. By the time I had unhooked the bronze bugger and released it away from the swim, the damn things were back on the spot, head-down like nothing had happened.

By late afternoon I was done trying to avoid the bream whilst picking out a single roach and was a bit lost for what to do. I was tempted to fish the barbel swim but not having any gear suitable I gave it a miss. With only an hour or so left I decided to just return to the motorway swim and sit it out for another chub or a big roach on the bread feeder. Putting my bank sticks back in the previous holes I settled into the worn swim thinking it would just be a case of whiling away my last hour watching a motionless tip in a used up swim.

First cast the feeder touched down on hard bottom and I put the rod down. Moments later the tip slowly bent round as if a huge clump of loose weed had snagged on my line. Anyone who has ever fished a chalk stream will be familiar with the massive chunks of weed which randomly come down like icebergs through the day and dislodge your rigs constantly. Picking up the rod I gently began to haul back my rig only to find the weed hugging the bottom and moving up stream some serious intent. It was a little surprising that my weed clump had suddenly turned into a mystery fish. Having seen carp in this swim before and from it's laborious fight, I suspected I was about to get turned around and spanked when a carp woke up, but no it just plodded around until it saw a weed bed, where it dived straight towards. Even more surprising was the fact that could stop it and my five pound line held. Maybe it wasn't a carp after all. With no salmonid acrobatics and it being far too big for a roach, identification was simple. It was a chub and a good one at that judging from its length when it rolled on the surface. With nothing but clear water between me and it the result was a forgone conclusion. With another decent chub in my net is was made up but when I went to lift it over the reeds the net pole began bending worryingly and I soon found out why...

This chub was in a different league to the first. It was around the same length but with a head bigger than my fist, shoulders to match and it seemed twice as thick as the other one. I think the term I used to Andy when I gave him a call to come help photograph it was 'Goliath'. Seeing the size of it I was shocked to find it only weighed 5.7lb but like all the fish we had caught it was very lean and still in summer condition. 

From examining the fish we both agreed where it was lacking body mass was in its stomach. This one like the other had a lot of feeding to do before winter, which makes sense as for months now it had only been non nutritional fly anglers on the beat. Given the overall size of this chub I think realistically that it could easily pack on a pound to a pound and half before Christmas. Which could make its top end weight close if not seven pounds.

The pictures we took didn't really do the fish justice but that was down the fishes poor behaviour. I'd rested it for a good while before the photos as it seemed very dazed and that consideration came back to haunt me as you can see from my top behind the fish.

The chub was a fine way to end an already productive trip back to the Itchen, but I wont deny that the sight of those giant chalk stream roach is burnt into my mind and I still can't believe that neither of us came remotely close to hooking one. It is as I said before, the Itchen like many Southern chalk streams, set such high bars for what is a good fish that a fish of a lifetime back home is just an average fish on these wondrous rivers.

The same but a different Wye.

The river Wye is still new to me. I have only ever fished it on three occasions and this was the third, hence I am still getting to know it. I suppose with the changeable nature of running water it could take someone a life time to get even the smallest understanding of a river, and that knowledge could be washed away with one single flood; so me and the Wye still have a long way to go till I have even a modicum of understanding.

Before we even left the shire, the Wye on paper looked not that different from how it had been less than a month ago. This in turn created a hint of confidence that we may, in some way, have a repeat performance of our previous visit to this little-fished stretch.

At four in the morning the sky was about as clear as it could be, and even the glow of the city did not seem to diminish the view of the stars. But this clear night was to herald a clear day, and that we did not want one bit for our trip to this river. The problem with pre-arranging such jaunts is that should the conditions be adverse, you can't exactly just change tack having ultimately drawn your cards weeks prior; should it be a bad hand then it is simply a case of making the most of a bad lot. 

Our day was planned, and even though the pair of us knew the bright sun might well be against us, the cogs were already moving, and come what may we would soon be slipping through the night to try and beat the rising sun to the Wye, to best our chances of casting into the half light.

Winter views of rising and setting suns are, I have to say, some of the best, but when you want to be on the bank before light up, that pale blue semicircle that appears on the horizon as you speed through the night, is like an alarm bell ringing in your mind. The journey into Herefordshire therefore was not savoured one bit and was instead reduced to a countdown of miles on the the satnav. 

It was just getting light as I tip toed around ice clad muddy puddles to open the gate into the white frosted landscape of the Wye valley, and for the first time this journey, I felt relaxed. We were here, it looked great and the spot where we headed held fish for sure. Though how long those fish may be inclined to feed was anyone's guess.

Not long after this, Andy inched the car along the top of the flood defences as we neared the chosen spot. Being only a single car width, any vehicles travelling along this track must either travel the entire length or turn around on the single area wide enough and flat enough to do so, before powering back up onto the track. 

It was decided that given we were the only people going to be on the stretch it was a good idea to turn the car around before we started fishing and leave it on the track ready to go later.  Going down into the turning area was easy enough, but when Andy came to power back up, the car slid to an inglorious stop with the wheels spinning in the soft ground covered in frost. A few attempts all ended the same way. This was not a good way to start a session. We agreed that the frost may be hampering his efforts and decided to leave the car where it was and try again once the sun had melted the white grass green again. Though it was also agreed to try again around midday, so as to leave us enough time to go and try and find a kind farmer to drag us out should we be unable to get out any other way.

I know Andy had the worry of being stuck niggling in the back of his mind, and frankly I did too, but unable to do anything about it we went about trying to catch some fish, as prime time was ticking away with the quickly rising sun.

As I set up I watched the river flowing past, and as all the available information had confirmed it was no higher or lower than when we were last here. Even the colour of the water could of been a exact match to last time. But something about it was different. My rigs were identical in all ways but one: not wanting any disasters I had obtained some highly durable yet reasonably lower diameter mono line which I had previously used and was very confident in.

I even cast back into the same area where on my last trip I had done so well. Three quick casts and the feeling that the river was different grew.  If my rig landed only a few feet further out, the flow seemed ten times as powerful. Sticking with just inside the flow, taps started to appear on the rod and soon enough those taps grew more violent. All the taps stopped suddenly before I got a proper rattle, and instinctively struck just as the tip bent over.

Although secretly hoping the barbel would show up again, I had wondered if the major drop in temperature overnight may have put them off feeding, but here I was playing a barbel after my first real bite of the day and it was really hammering me. The freezing temperature had certainly not made this fish lethargic at all. Time and time again it powered in and out of the current, until I finally coaxed it into the slack water towards my waiting net.

Not a massive barbel, but on a freezing cold morning it was more than I expected quite honestly. A few repeat casts later it's smaller brother or sister did a very convincing impression of giant roach. The tip kept rattling  as is my baits were pecked at by a 10lb roach. This fish was half the size of the first and all the way in I suspected a the big white lips of a chub would appear from the fight, but then it suddenly turned into a small barbel.

Not long after the second fish, the bites dried up totally. Strangely, Andy, who was fishing a crease up stream, seemed to be getting regular bites. Thus I suspected the fish may of moved a bit further out. In order to try and squeeze out more interest  I increased my feeders weight and pushed more into the flow. Just casting that few feet more it seemed like the entire pressure of the Wye was on my rig, and time and time again no matter how much more weight I added, the rig was unceremoniously ejected back into the slack after tumbling across the rocky bottom. Even going onto my second rod, with its Avon tip and a huge cow lead piggy backed onto the feeder, only served to bend my rod right through the top section.

Feeling like I was not fishing effectively, I decided a new spot was in order, and dropped down to fish the crease where the flow came back off the bend, only to find this was a hundred times worse. This time  sunken maple leaves skipping the bottom immediately hooked up on my weighty rig and dislodged it in the edge.
It was whilst trying to fish this area that I realised that although the river was seemingly of exactly the same level as on our last visit, the flow had a lot more pace and power. It was almost malevolent as it pushed by, and was only content for me to cast beside it. Should I cast anything into its path, it was just shoved out of the way. Thinking about it, the only reason I can rationally think could explain this is that the water was encountering less resistance as it moved down stream. Whether it was reduced weed levels upstream or the wind coming from a different direction and not holding it up, or just pushing it on. The fact was that it was much more powerful  than before, and this was confining us to areas where the fish did not seem comfortable feeding.

As agreed, around midday after fighting it out for very little, we opted to make a move. The last time here we held it out in one area under the belief that the fish would again feed as dusk fell, only to find they had no intention of getting back on a bait. This time we wanted to explore a few other spots lower down stream, and as Andy had managed to get the car out of the mire it seemed a good time to move.

First we checked out an area we hoped might hold a large upstream slack, where rumours of big pike abound, but it turned out the increased pace of the water had pushed the main flow of the river directly onto the bank where we stood, which had in turn transformed what I suspect was a normally sedate spot into a maelstrom of mixed currents which neither of us fancied trifling with.

Next we headed to the very bottom of the stretch, entering via a second gate at the bottom of a very muddy lane. This part of the river looked every part a salmon and trout beat; long riffles interspersed with slightly deeper pools had spey casting written all over it, but as for coarse fishing it was not looking good at all. Worst of all the early winter sunset was not so long off that we could justify going back to our original spot. So begrudgingly we picked the likeliest looking area, which turned out to be a grassy plateau level with the river, and tried to make the most of things.

Upstream from Andy, I could not hold bottom again, and soon enough resorted to trotting the biggest chubber float I had along a run mid river to try and steal a bite here or there. The float moved so fast that a fifty yard trot lasted mere moments, but after persevering for a good hour or more the float buried out of sight at the end of the run and I contacted a reasonable chub. Vilified, my only problem now was how do you tow in a 2-3lb chub against the full force of the Wye using only a 3lb hook link.  It took a while and some gentle pumping, but a big white pair of lips appeared not far from my net just before one last turn against the flow pinged my size sixteen hook back in my face.

The move did turn out to be a bit of a bad one as the lower part of the stretch just did not seem the right sort of place to be fishing right now. Sure, in the summer standing knee deep in the river rolling a chunk of meat down the far bank under the trees may have been very productive, but at the time of year when that tactic would work, this place is the private premise of the salmon angler.

We had such high hopes for this session back on the Wye as it was going to be our last trip down this year, but the conditions had made the fishing difficult. However this river has me hooked, and I can't wait to return and discover a bit more about it, provided I can persuade its owner to let me come back again next year early after the salmon season is done.

Southern shennanigans

I rarely begin writing about an adventure before I actually embark upon it, but this time I think it may be necessary   You see, after returning from any of my previous trips that have involved the lower Itchen fishery, I have found myself almost speechless. The reason I often find myself lacking words is simply due to a fishing daze. Just half a day early in the coarse season and you ultimately feel like you have been blasted with angling shot gun.

I told Andy, who is on his first visit with us this time, that the only way to describe how good the area we were going to fish is,  think of the best river fishing he has ever had, take away all fear from the fish, and times it by three. 
The reason, I think, for this above exceptional sport is quite simply a lack of pressure. This highly prized and protected stretch is, for most of the year, the premise of the Salmon and trout angler. So for the entire summer the numerous residents that are not targeted by the fluff chuckers do not supplemented in any way. Come the end of the game season and copious amounts of maggots suddenly sink slowly through the water; the fish gorging themselves on the bounty. 
Obviously given time, the fish acclimatise and realise that the bounty comes at a price, thus becoming wary. But for the first two weeks of the season it really is pure heaven and could well be a reflection of how fishing all over the UK was once. Luckily for us we happened to be going in the honeymoon period when coarse fishing is allowed.

But before we got to the main course we had arranged an appetiser session on the Dorset Stour, where we hoped we stood a chance of connecting with big chub or roach on a stretch that Keith and Jeff had fished earlier in the year.

Men our age shouldn't get as excited as we had, and upon rendezvousing at Andy's early Saturday morning, we were all noticeably twitchy. Though excited as we were, there was a cut of  reality about the mood. We had all heard the previous two days weather report for the south. Combine this with the spiking river level on the Stour and we where unsure of what we would find upon arriving.

Journeys in good company rarely drag by, and the constant conversation lubricated the passing of time till we finally crossed the old bridge spanning the Stour. The sight we caught fleetingly in the half light was not good. Unlike our sluggish local rivers I believe the Stour has a respectable flow even without 24hrs of rain filtering into it. On this occasion I think the best description of the flow would be raging, rising and possibly rapidly.

A quick walk of the stretch and it was agreed that we were here now and we would fish, then see how we got on by lunch time when the decision would be made to abandon session or stick it out.
To me the main channel of the river looked horrendous, but several slacks on our bank seemed the best option to maybe tempt something seeking sanctuary out of the main flow. So I set up next to nice looking spot where the bending river caused the flow to shoot out diagonally from my left leaving a nice crease and subsequent slack for me to fish.

Maggot, we had been informed, were the bait for this bit of water, but whacking shed loads of maggots into it didn't feel right on the day. Luckily for me in the bottom of my bag was a bait tub full of lobworms which I had chucked in as a back up bait. The idea that the rising water would wash any unsuspecting worms into the river was enough for me to stick with them all morning.

A split lob cast into the crease weighted by little lead swung into the slack and bites came quickly. Six small perch succumbed in quick succession before a felt a solid fish on. Although I felt it and was sure it was a fish it doubt it felt the searing bite of my hook at all.

After this the worm line petered away and the river rose. I had already moved back a foot or so but the river constantly crept towards me lapping at my feet and after four moves I found myself six feet further from the river than when I started.

I was just considering a fifth move up the bank when my two companions arrived  to discuss what to do. With the river rising fast, the fishing was getting harder and we were all suffering. The decision was made to head over the the Itchen to give the free stretches a go and see how the water levels had been affected, in anticipation for the main event.

When we arrived the river looked to be higher than normal, with that constant bank to bank flow associated with chalk streams, but held a very muddy colour, which I for one had never seen on this river. Honestly it didn't look too bad to me. The locals on the other hand seemed a little worried about it. Comments such as "oh it ain't been this high for ages" spilled constantly from their mouths as they seemed genuinely concerned that an impending flood approached. For those of us that live near to river such as the Avon, Trent and Severn are used to the water being over its banks, and a bad flood is when caravans come flying down the river smashing into bridges; not when the there is some danger the water may reach the top of the bank.

We did however fish and of all the things that made the fishing hard, I think be far the biggest factor was the lack of clarity in the water. Although I must say that in my experience the free stretches of any river get hammered senseless. Hence the fish ain't stupid!

Lined along the banks with the locals we gave it our best shot and for my part an hour in I hooked a good fish which I suspect was a trout, but whose teeth severed my light line moments after I hooked it. I stuck with my line running along the opposite bank and fed constantly with maggots, and as I nattered to Jeff who had just arrived, I hooked a good chub which held on the opposite bank and thumped away until the hook pulled. That second loss really hurt, especially as I knew those bites were at a premium right now.

I plugged away all afternoon until my arm ached from repeating the same cast time and time again. Andy and Baz ambled along the bank as I approached the last few pouches of maggots. The time for the off neared and tired from my constant casting, I offered my rod to either of them whilst I had a smoke before packing away. Andy took the rod and began casting whilst I fired out the remaining baits. Would you believe only moments after I fired the very last few of grubs into the water and stated that was the last of the bait, Andy called out 'fish on'. After a decent fight in the powerful flow and instructions being called from many sources the net was slipped under a nice looking chub of  2lb!

Day one had been a real test for us, fishing two out of sorts venues. But things were looking up. Adjacent to my swim was a level board and as I fished away I noticed that not only had the water level fallen by several inches, but I could also see the numbers below the water as the river cleared.

A little dejected we headed back to the digs to freshen up for a nice meal and a few civilised tipples before getting to bed early in order to get a good nights sleep ready for day two.... After waiting an age for our meal we did finally enjoy some hot food, and then when all the others arrived at the pub the couple of beverages turned turned into a serious session, with the drinks were going down like lizard eggs, leaving every member of the rowdy group drunk senseless. One at a time we fell away. Keith had unusually fallen silent in a stupor in the corner. Jeff especially was a sight to behold at two in the morning with one eye open and the other shut, gargling away in some seeming strange tongue that sounded a little infant like. After making generous contributions to the Irish economy Baz disappeared after the single word statement of 'bed'. And as for Andy, the best we could figure was that he was locked up in a dungeon under the main house wearing a gimp mask by now.

Less than fours hours later alarms sounded and some very peaky looking chaps fumbled around attempting to get sorted as they muttered away to themselves. A cooked breakfast plus aspirin later we found ourselves standing at the bottom of the lower Itchen fishery, still looking a little worse for wear.
The main concern for all though was the state of the river. It had dropped by close to a foot overnight and seemed to be clearing, but all of us still had apprehensions after hearing Sash's tales of woe from his session here the night before.

After we all went our separate ways I strolled upstream towards a ugly swim which has on every previous visit produced the goods for me. This time I fished it from the opposite side of the river to avoid the full force of the river smashing into my lines. A couple of exploratory casts with an empty feeder confirmed the rig would hold on the edge of the main flow. The next cast went out with a baited hook and feeder full of red maggots. Instantly the tip rattled with the attentions of hungry minnows then fell still before smashing round violently.
The fish held deep before beginning what has to be one of the most insane and heart pounding fights I have ever had. It shot upstream zig zagging, before turning round and ploughing down the current in a run than hammered the clutch on the reel into an inaudible sound, before exiting the water shaking its head side to side. After several smaller runs across the river I was treated to the fish tail walking against the flow. The whole time this was going on I held on for dear life attempting to keep it away from every patch of streamer weed and all other weed beds it ventured near. After two failed attempts I finally slipped her into the net, gathered my breathe for a moment and let her rest before I pulled out the net to feast my eyes on my fish of the trip and a new PB.

The fish it would seem were feeding and straight away my worries that the trip could be a total wash out were quashed. A steady stream of small grayling and gudgeon followed before another big fish thumped my rod tip. This had to be a good chub and it did what chub do best and bored its way straight into the closest weed bed. Even with a huge open bank to walk in and attempt to change the angle, I could not shift it from the dense weed and inevitably the culprit escaped as I tried to free the rig.

A couple of more aggressive bites ended in my hook being severed from my line and I knew it would only be time before a trout came my way. And they did in the form of three small 1-2lb brownies who had fallen under my maggoty spell.

It may sound odd as I was catching, but I forced myself to leave the first swim. Quite honestly I could have sat there all day but more swims beckoned, and the next intended swim I had heard on my last visit was reputed to hold some very big roach. After tossing a few handfuls of bread mash well upstream I squeezed in and flicked in a small pinch of bread. Twanging bites came instantly and after one false strike I hooked a small roach not more than 6oz.

Two more followed but after that the bites evaporated; on this fishery its just a case of moving onto the next swim to plunder different fish instead of waiting for bites to come again.

I headed up to the mid reaches in order to met up with the others for lunch. Arriving an hour early I settled in a fast run close to the hut. Every cast of the feeder I reeled in a small grayling. I must of landed twenty plus fish but not one was more than a pound in weight.

When the others arrived it was evident that the previous nights debacle had taken its toll and everyone in our little group looked knackered  A brief and quiet lunch consumed we again went our separate ways. Myself and Jeff strolled back down the river where we both fancied the weir pool.
I stuck it out all afternoon on the maggot feeder hoping a constant stream of grubs may entice first the smaller residents, and maybe signal any barbel to the presence of food. The small chub, gudgeon and grayling did arrive but the nothing bigger showed at all and by mid afternoon I was running on empty as was everyone else.The day drifted away as did the fishing and in hindsight stopping in the middle reaches would probably been a better afternoon choice but I made my choices with a very tired brain.

It was well before dusk when the idea of leaving early was thrown into conversation and we all agreed sticking it out till the bitter end seemed fruitless considering how the fishing had declined through the the day.

Truthfully the weekend did turn out to be a slight anticlimax for a lot of us. Though I must say that in my opinion we all may have got more from the second day if we hadn't gone so mad the night before, ending up fishing with half our brains turned off.

For me though the trip had been more than worthwhile with me knocking chub off  left right and centre and even with hard conditions to contend with, still catching loads of grayling and small trout. Oh and of course that PB.

After so many run ins and losses with this species on this venue, I finally at long last, with the help of my John Wilson Avon quiver rod, a bit of luck and after a very memorable fight, landed my first proper size Atlantic salmon of a little over 9lb, using a method which would have most tweed clad salmon anglers sneering from behind their handlebar moustaches. But I don't care because it was an amazing and truly beautiful fish that I felt privileged to hold in my hands

Holy crap I think I chucked back a British record!!!

It's been busy for me fishing wise the last few days; I have fished two rivers hundreds of miles apart and it has had its ups and down, but honestly all the effort has been very worth it as I have landed some some superb fish, one of which was small but turned out to be a real heart breaker!

The Avon still seems rather stagnant as it awaits a good flush through, which has to come sooner or later. In the meantime it's a case of going when you know you stand the best chance of catching. So Sunday I picked Jeff up well before dawn to drive down for a session.

For me it was all about Barbel/Zander and looking for one in the wake of the other. I was a little unsure if the zeds would have a go in the early morning as I am currently of the thinking that they feed hard at last light and taper off through the night, but the Barbel seem to revel in the dark, so the chance of a searing yank was always on the cards as long as the moon was out.

Turned out the Zander did have a brief feeding spell just as the sky lightened, where from three bites I landed two minters, the first of 2-3lb and a second of 5.4lb.

The sun came up all to soon and the Barbel never showed, but through the morning my deposits of halibut ground bait and pellets attracted the bream on mass. Four nice chunky fish graced my net and three got away but all were welcome whilst I waited for the no show Barbel.

For once the Avon seemed to perform rather consistently. Either that or after spending the whole season so far fishing poor conditions I am getting used to it.

Tuesday I again picked up Jeff in the dark. But this time we bypassed the Avon and headed south to the theatre of dreams where in the company of many other anglers just as keen as ourselves, we would again cast lines into the resplendent and ever giving river Itchen.

The Itchen changed the bar for how good rivers can be for me. On my first visit last year I had no idea of what it was like so therefore I flitted around trying to do everything on one day. This year I knew the crack and had a plan.

On my first visit I had enjoyed the beautiful art of long trotting for most of the day, but as enjoyable as it was, it was overshadowed when the devastatingly efficient of the maggot feeder had been deployed by myself.

When I left that first time there was no doubt in my mind that although the catch rate was the same for both methods the feeder yielded much bigger fish. So this time this was where I would begin.

Once everyone had touched base at the bottom of the fishery they all headed off upstream, all except myself and Jeff, who also had intent in mind. I headed straight for the ugliest swim on the entire fishery, plonked myself down and began hoofing in maggots by the Drennan feeder load. It took all of two, maybe three seconds, for me to get turned over by a unseen fish so heavier hook links seemed in order straight away.

All morning I had a queue of fantastic Trout, small Grayling and Chub ready to gobble my baits down with unabated gusto and every one was picture perfect...

I thought the highlight of my session was when my rod tip buckled over and I made contact with a Salmon which after shedding my hook performed some brilliant zigzagging jumps defiantly up river in front of me. That was until the bites petered off and just as I began packing up to move my rod went again. At first I thought another trout or chub had taken my bait as the light rod arched over, but when it swirled in the water like a Grayling I knew my first new PB of the day was close to the net.

When I first saw it on the bank I truly thought it was going to be 3lb but the dial eventually confirmed it was a PB at 2.1lb. Interestingly it coughed up a load of corn and the only person within any range of me upstream was Jeff whom when asked confirmed that he hadn't feed any corn, so where it got that was anyones guess.

Around noon I migrated up stream to lunch by the anglers hut. Whilst awaiting Mr Hatt to arrive and brew the tea I slipped into a swim after very polite gent who was off down stream. I could have done some trotting but the previous angler had been running baits through for a few hours so I threw the feeder back out.

Straight away the fish were onto the bait and after ten or more Grayling up to 10oz my first trout crashed the party, cartwheeling around like a dervish. Now I am no expert in trout but this one looked different from all the others I had encountered, which lead me to question whether it was a brownie or a small sea trout. If anyone has an opinion please feel free to comment.

The next trout that turned up was a real kipper which absolutely refused to come to my bank no matter how much pressure I put on it; but when I did finally land it, what a fish it was! A chunky cock fish with a well formed kype and an attitude to boot. This fellow was king of this swim for sure and my second PB of the day.

My biggest suprise of the day came from one of the smallest inhabitants of the river. A slow and tentative bite produced what I first thought was another little Grayling which turned into the mother of all Gudgeon which was as thicker than a sausage. In all my life I have never caught a gudgeon half the size of this one. It had to go on the scales. I remember thinking 'oh 6oz thats a big gudgeon' as I photographed it then plopped it back in. 

Then when a chap called Danny turned up. When I explained my capture he told me the records only four something which straight away put doubt in my mind. He then suggested that it could have been a baby Barbel which apparently can look like gudgeon when there are juveniles. But when Jeff turned up we all looked at the picture it was confirmed gudgeon again.

Now I know that weighing small fish on over gunned scales it not that accurate so when I got home I first took a picture of my hand with a tape measure to show how long it was. 7" is a impressive length for a gonk! 

Then at work I checked my scales against some high quailty certified comercial scales and found that yes they are not perfect at low weights, but on every anttempt the 6oz mean weight came out between five and six ounces. Foolishly after this I checked out the offical record online and found out it was 5oz dead. Yes I am gutted! If only I would have called Jeff up who had some relative scales I could have been contacting the british records committee about submitting my application, as well as getting another PB.

After lunch and spending a few hours mooching around some pools near the hut I again headed back down river prompted by other anglers descending. My reason for this was to get a spot on the weir at the very bottom of the fishery, which contains every type of fish from salmon  to carp. Happily I was the first on it and bagged a prime spot where Keith had landed a small barbel first cast this morning.

Having a load of maggots left I set up a heavier feeder set up and went to work running out my bait. I was hoping catch a nice Roach or a Barbel but nether got onto my slew of bait. But this is the Itchen so although what I wanted never turned up I caught plenty of fish. Grayling, salmon par, and eels all grabbed at my bait in the turbulent water.

Eventually I ran out of maggots which was shortly followed by the corn too. So with only one option left I started with bread. My first fish on bread was an eel of a pound. The second fish I never would have thought would touch a big gob of white stuff, though I am not moaning as it was the most spectacular trout I have ever caught in my life.

As always we left under the cover of darkness in a daze of grayling and trout plus a hint of sorrow that I never checked that little giant out before casually tossing it back. I think now after my second visit to the Itchen I can without a doubt say this is one of the best rivers in the UK. 

An Itchen adventure

When asked a few months ago if I wanted to join Keith and Jeff on trip to fish the river Itchen in Hampshire it probably took me all of a millisecond to answer yes and ever since I had a kid like case of pant pissing on the go as I became more and more excited as the day approached.

After what seemed like a short journey southwards in which there was only one single topic of conversion we finally set eyes on the river. We weren't due to fish until the following day and the first stop was the pub that sits beside the river below the stretch we were due to fish. After spending two pints of time with all three of us staring into the gin clear river gawping and trying to second guess what the group of three chub would do next, none of us could stand it any longer. Hastily all of us set up a rod each and under the guise of getting to know how the river moved, we all wet a line.

Amongst the trillion minnows that attacked my bait every run through I did manage to land two small roach and a little chub of ten or so ounces. But although I never admitted this to my companions at the time I was feeling a little trepidation about this river after a mediocre performance, even though we could obviously see how hammered the river gets on this free stretch by local anglers.

My worries were more than dismayed when upon arrival I clapped eyes on what was a completely different river to the one we had cast into the night before. Muddy well worn pegs in the bushes next to main roads were replaced with manicured grass along side a pacey stream with fronds of streaming weed wafting under its sparkling surface.

Trotting I had been informed was the order of the trip and although I own a vintage centrepin reel I had borrowed a far superior J W Young pursuit II from Richard, Jacky's dad, to do the river some justice. Even just setting up the rig and plopping the float into the water to check the shotting got the line peeling from the pin. This river and this reel were meant to be together. After a few runs down I was beginning to feel like I was the gooseberry caught in a romantic moment between reel and river. But my part was soon to come. 

There is always that feeling when beginning to fish on a new bit of water. The one were for  the first few seconds you think 'is this gonna happen?' This feeling was soon kicked off into the undergrowth as my first run through in a deep swim on a bend, the float disappeared and an instant strike was met with an unfamiliar swirling fight. In my first real swim on my first real run through I'd hooked my first Itchen Grayling.

At first I couldn't believe it. But after nine more casts and nine more Grayling, this rivers mighty reputation seemed rather well founded. My first trout encounter of the day came shortly after my tenth fish when after the float buried once again my now blasé strike was met by some proper force and a brown trout of around 2-3lb came hurtling out of the water. Unable to apply any force due to a light link and standing helplessly watching a gymnastic show worthy of any circus,I was soon snapped off!

The next spot was another deep sweeping bend that turned out to be mainly populated with Grayling. Casting tight to the outside of the bend above the platform on which I was standing I could first back trot, reeling in line as the float approached, then follow the course of the float with the rod as the float passed by, then let off line once the flow off the water pulled tension back into the line, whilst all the time making minute adjustments to steer the float and line within millimeters of any over hanging branches. Every run through would get some kind of reaction from something hiding in the deep bend.

Even if I let the float run right through the swim and glide of down stream into the shallower water I could hold back hard and raise the bait up in the water just off the bottom. Doing this brought a stream of what I thought at first to be tiny brown trout, but were in fact confirmed later to be salmon parr.

Finally after realising that I had spent far to long in one place I forced myself to move and wandered off down stream investigating any interesting looking swims as I went. There were bites to be had in even the shallowest swims that seemed devoid of fish. At every stop at least one or two grayling could be taken at some part of the swim and after awhile my rough tally of how many and how much they weighed was soon forgotten.

If the first bend I had fished wasn't attractive enough the next one was a minter and turned out to be just as rammed with even more Grayling. After a further hour repeatedly running the float through I had amassed another twenty plus fish of between 2oz - 12oz. Again I had to force myself on to the next swim.

After this I wandered of down stream and became a little more discerning about the swims I trotted. This was largely due to me covering only a tiny section of river in the first third of the day. I was the only angler on the whole bottom section and wandering alone in pure heaven I peered into every deep hole and off every bridge. In one deep still eddy I thought it looked just the place were a carp or two might patrol and I duly deposited a pint of maggots and some corn tight to a reed bed under a collection of flotsum with the intention of returning later to see if any thing was around, though I never did as the fishing overload took hold of me.

Walking back up stream for our half time tea and discussion I met up with Jeff who was still trotting corn and bagging a very nice stamp of Grayling and learnt that he had lost one huge salmon and landed another. 

Whilst Jeff did the honours with the Kelly kettle and tea bags I located Keith sitting school boy style with his feeder rod in hand on the platform I had fished earlier. Sitting next too him chatting as he deftly flicked a feeder full of maggots deep into the bend I watched as the tip sprang back and forth as the contents of the feeder attracted a steady run of Grayling and trout. Ten minutes of watching and I was about to utter the words "giz a go mate" but was cut off before I started with the offer of a go. Watching the tip constantly moving confirmed the huge mass of fish in the deeper water and also confirmed that after lunch my feeder rod was coming out for a bit of fun on the deep bottom stretch.

After a break discussing the goings on of the morning for all of us it was decided that we would drop the whole operation down into the slower deeper bottom section and hunker down for the afternoon as we had all absolutely mullered our Grayling points for the challenge, and now it was time for even more self indulgence. After walking the very bottom of the entire stretch I decided to fish a swim in probably the least romantic area of the entire fishery just above the motorway bridge. With two pints of maggots left over and after seeing the effectiveness the maggot feeder had had upstream I cadged a feeder off Jeff and set up the crudest of paternosters. Filling the feeder to the brim with maggots and regularly swinging it onto the far bank, then letting it swing in brought instant results, with a nice brown trout of around two pounds first cast.

My crude coarse tactics absolutely ripped this pristine game river to bits. My next decent fish came after a slew of Grayling by way of my best lady of the stream to date. Sadly I never got a chance to weigh as I had become paranoid about these beautiful fish going belly up, which they seem to do so easily. But I am sure it was getting close to a pound in weight.

Another hour of swinging a feeder stuffed full of magoos into the river every five minutes I had amassed even more Grayling but the next bite was by far the most ferocious of the entire day. To say the tip went round was an understatement, as the tip, top section and middle section of my light feeder rod bent double! At first the fish didn't move but when it did it made straight for the closest weed bed. My suspicions were confirmed that a chub had taken my bait when I spotted those big white lips poking from under a large amount of weed it had collected during the fight. It didn't look to big in the net but when on the bank and with the weed off of it the length of this lean fast water fish revealed. On the scales it went 4.6lb though later in the year with a bit more weight it will be five pounds every day of the week.

After the chub all went quite for a while and I changed onto the bread feeder as my maggots were almost gone. Straight away on a tiny flake of bread I got a repeat performance from another chub which found it's freedom in the exact same weed bed the last one made for. After snapping off the feeder in the weed I again set up again and to my surprise the first taker of my bread flake was another nice trout.

I carried on all the way into dark with the bread flake in the hope that this swim might produce a nice roach that I had been informed frequent it by some of the other anglers who passed by. After landing one more trout  the light began to fade and all too soon the day was over. I have to say that this really was a truly wonderful experience that I hope won't be too long in coming round again. Fishing with a large group of anglers who had all been booked together gave the whole day a real sense of camaraderie and any help or knowledge needed was freely given.

Thanks to Keith for inviting me along and giving me all the advice I needed before the trip and also to Sash if he reads this for organizing the fishing.