Trout in thin air
Andrew Flitcroft searches for wild brown trout in the hallowed waters of the Bourne Rivulet, where he encounters a fish to remember
THERE’S A stream in southern England that’s so clear its trout appear to levitate. Its cool, spring-fed water runs over chalk, shimmies through beds of flowering ranunculus and under boughs of alder and willow before spilling into the famous River Test around the village of Hurstbourne Priors in Hampshire. So small is this rivulet that you’d miss it if you didn’t have the instinct of a heron.
The Bourne Rivulet is no ordinary chalkstream; it is a cut above all others. The uppermost tributary of the famous Test, it is not tainted by a winding, seabound journey, nor the impacts of intense commercial endeavour. Up here, wild brown trout have sanctuary, despite a few foolish anglers who pay to disprove their cunning.
William Daniel.
I’d fished the Bourne once before. I was fortunate on that sunny twenty-teens day. There was fly hatching — Pale Wateries, if I remember correctly — and a two-pounder dropped its guard for a split second. It was wild — of which there can be no doubt.
I was reminded of that fish by William Daniel on my return, just a few months back. William remembers everything; a raconteur and the most charismatic of fisherfolk, he has the Bourne running through his veins. In 1995 he took it upon himself to adopt this thread of water and, despite fishing the world over, he likes nothing more than hosting rods that value the history and accept the complexities of this most precious asset.
Water so clear that you would not see it without the rippling currents on its surface and the puff of sand displaced by your wading boots
William points out a likely spot on the beautiful Bourne Rivulet, while Andrew thinks how close he can get without prompting panic among the ranks.
The rudimentary hut says nothing of the Bourne’s prestige. It offers a folding-chair nap should you wish to partake, or, in my case, a change of shirt after an impromptu downpour on an otherwise blue-sky morning. I had only just set foot in the stream and was marvelling at the unique feeling of standing in water so clear that you would not see it without the rippling currents on its surface and the puff of sand displaced by your wading boots. Then came the rain. Ten minutes later, dried out, I had to do it all again. It is a feeling that can’t be experienced elsewhere and something you’ll never tire of.
It was early July, best-in-show time: reeds vivid, sunlit white gravel, damselflies and skylarks. Once you’re knee deep and working upstream, there’s no exit. The everyday pace of life you’ve left behind filters downstream. Expect a little distant road noise as folk go about the lanes, but don’t expect to see another soul all day.
A demoiselle (Calopteryx virgo) and other bugs live in the rich margins…
…yet Bourne trout are famously fussy. William tends to stick to size 16 and smaller, unless imitating mayfly (Ephemera Danica).
A Yellow May Dun (Heptagenia Sulphurea) on William's finger.
The Bourne’s main channel is a third of its overall width in places; the rest is left to nature’s ways, which means, even if you do hook a fish, keeping it out of the other two thirds of taggled refuge is a priority. Netting one is a triumph to be celebrated in a quintessential English pub garden. These fish are as wild as the habitat that William has nurtured. Here, the trout have the upper hand and only anglers prepared to be defeated are comfortable in their presence.
My journey of wonder started as it should: at a snail’s pace. It continued that way, stopping and watching William’s every focus, until he was sure Mr Trout is not at home. You know when a “guide” nears a known lie, don’t you? He stops, then pans the area repeatedly. He needn’t say anything. You’re just waiting with your dressed dry-fly in fingertips and line in a belly downstream. You don’t interfere; you allow him the moment.
Fishing the Bourne is like turning up at the Super Bowl — the pressure is on and you must be in ‘the zone’
Chances are the trout’s there, or somewhere near, but if we cannot see him, or he’s not rising or visibly nymphing, we move on. As we pass the seemingly vacant lie, he bombs out from under our feet and is ushered downstream with William’s rod tip like an unruly terrier.
“We don’t want them charging upstream,” says William in a familiar, defeated voice.
“That’s why I leave it like this; they need somewhere to bolt to.”
Future generations scattered willy-nilly. This one couldn’t resist.
Fishing the Bourne is like turning up at the Super Bowl — the pressure is on and you must be in “the zone”. Here, that means making every cast count. It means getting a fly under a bough with little means of entry. The first delivery is critical. Count yourself lucky if you get a second chance. A third and you’ve often missed your opportunity — the rise melts away like butter on a crumpet.
You move on, happy of the opportunity and that you’re wading in cool spring water in the heat of the day. You look longingly upstream at the next tempting glide, despite William knowing better. There’s little room for overhead trickery — much of the delivery is done with a roll cast, or Spey if you are lucky. A four-weight line on an 8ft 8in three-weight does the trick, when close. At distance, the roll cast opens up to the delight of the canopy, which claims another size 16. It’s intimate, frustrating, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.
A few hours later, though it could have been minutes, William announced lunch. Sadly, there was little to show for his patience and my ineptitude, apart from a palm-sized brownie that I’m convinced felt sorry for me. I’d done my best to put everything else down. It had been one of those mornings where even a service station sandwich and a mug of tea would trigger a welcome re-boot.
We move a short drive downstream to the church at which the Bourne’s most famous exponent, author Harry Plunket Green, is buried. His grave has become a shrine to anglers that hold dear to their hearts his writing on the Bourne in Where the Bright Waters Meet. Gifted anodised tins of flies lay on his stone, which otherwise looks like any other, albeit needing a little TLC — nothing a brush and soapy water wouldn’t fix, if you were minded.
We walked downstream then fished up, keeping an eye out for a trout we’d been tipped off about. We got sight of it briefly as it shot downstream after William stepped on it in the most unlikely of spots. Another small jewel came to hand, then a big trout followed a nymph downstream — three times no less — as if to humour me.
Harry Plunket Greene
The Bourne Rivulet will be forever associated with Harry Plunket Greene (1865-1936) whose book Where the Bright Waters Meet is one of the best loved in angling literature. A famous baritone concert singer of his day, Plunket Greene (pictured) brought his young family to live in Hurstbourne Priors between 1902-1912. The book charts his friendships, triumphs and disasters while fishing the Bourne, as well as warning of the dangers of overstocking (the river has been run as a wild-trout fishery since 1995).
William and Andrew slowly and discreetly working upstream.
It was late afternoon when the last, wider pool appeared and defeat crept ever closer.
William stopped once more. “There’s always a fish or two here,” he affirmed.
We gazed at water no deeper than 18-inches, ruffled by the chute from a hatch (sluice) to the left — and one to the right, forming the only cover. We stared at the seemingly fishless, tennis-court-sized shallow for an age.
Looking disturbed, it then retreated deep beneath the bankside canopy and sat facing downstream in a back-eddy
I lifted my rod clumsily — as only a beaten rod does nearing full-time — and a tiddler shot downstream.
We waited again.
Then, on one side, a movement. A shape followed by an identical shadow. A good fish, though moving about too much for my liking. Looking disturbed, it then retreated deep beneath the bankside canopy and sat facing downstream in a back-eddy — safe. Incredibly, it then returned to open water and repeated the same circuit several times, allowing enough time in between for us to doubt its return. I’d noted its path and was ready.
Time to forget the niceties, I thought, switching to a size 14 beaded Pheasant Tail Nymph. “It’s coming again,” said Ali, taking pictures from the bank.
I cast, saw the white of its mouth and then its head shake. “Lift!” shouted William.
At last — the trout from the back-eddy, tempted by a nymph.
He was on, then soon wrestled to the net. I felt a little sorry for the fish. It was on the lean side, but still, a decent one, a handful — the sort that crowns a difficult day.
And that was that. William had called it, happy with a decent fish. We exited the river through a spinney and over the very hatch we’d fished below. I had one last stare into the pool upstream of the hatch. The canopy threw dappled shade over the tail and shafts of light lit polka dots onto the bed of the river.
Then I saw it. A patch of light one second, then gone the next, extinguished by a wide back swaying side to side.
There was only one solution: to scale down the wall like a lizard and hopefully get away with it
I called William under my breath as he headed for the car. He returned, then couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted the fish.
“It’s all of four pounds, surely,” I thought, though neither of us wanted to commit.
We watched the trout from a height, trying not to spook it.
“Is it feeding?” we asked each other. “And how the hell do we catch it?”
The trout, big as it was, lay 25ft upstream of the hatch, with a 7ft high brick wall on either side funnelling water through the hatch’s narrow gap. To enter via the natural bank would put me level with and within a rod length of the fish. I’d spook it.
There was only one solution: to scale down the wall like a lizard and hopefully get away with it. I was up for it, though it meant a detour, breaching a barbed wire fence in my breathable waders, crossing a ditch, then crawling onto the wall.
There were few prizes for elegance as I lowered myself down the wall then hung like a carcass on a butcher’s hook before plunging into the Bourne.
Surprisingly, when I hit the deck, it was met with approval.
“It’s still there,” said William.
How, I have no idea.
Finally, in position.
I reached up for the rod, just yards from the fish, then slowly and carefully positioned myself directly below it, brick walls either side.
I couldn’t see the fish. I was too low and the reflections obscured it. I stripped a little line off the reel so that it bellied downstream, and William stepped in.
“You know what,” he said. “You’ll get one chance at this. I’d put a mayfly on.”
They are Danica in these parts.
“I know it’s July, but they are used to seeing them now,” William added. “If he’s going to come to anything, it’ll be a mayfly.”
It made sense, of course.
I flicked the mayfly dun upstream a rod length or so.
“Too far, don’t line it,” came the voice from above.
I flicked it out again, shorter this time.
“That’s it, that’s it — he moved!”
I cast once more and he moved again. This time or never, I thought.
“He’s coming, he’s coming!”
His snout emerged as he engulfed the mayfly, I lifted and held on. I couldn’t risk giving him anything, and soon after jumping and charging around the pool a few times, he slid over the net to a cheer from the team.
Not 4lb, but memorable, nonetheless.
We looked at him in the net and he looked at us — 3lb of totally wild Bourne Rivulet brown trout. It had us all in raptures. The last-minute timing, the situation, the execution and the teamwork involved will be remembered over many a beer.
And so, the Bourne Rivulet, despite her gentle looks, lived up to her moody and seductive reputation once more. She’s delivered, again, with the drama I’ve come to expect of her. Nonetheless, if you are the sort that doesn’t mind donating a few flies to nature, that seeks a challenge and likes good company, there are few places better than this stunningly English and frustratingly captivating chalkstream. Come here expecting to catch lots of fish and she’ll bite you in the butt. PHOTOGRAPHY & VIDEOGRAPHY: ALI PARKIN
Day rods are available on the Bourne through William Daniel of Famous Fishing, who has been managing and letting the fishing for over 30 years. The season runs from May 1 - September 30 and the river is rested on alternate days, with fishing available on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and the occasional Saturday.
Contact: william@famousfishing.co.uk
