River Avon, Wiltshire

At a point on the A303 roughly where Hampshire gives way to Wiltshire the road crests a ridge and you see a stunning vista of rich farmland as far as the eye can see to the western horizon. It's a vast flat expanse of fields in hues of green and brown, separated by hedgerows and trees in no particular pattern. If you're familiar with this road I'm sure you will know the precise place. It's a breathtaking view, and where the sun pierced the clouds the land was dappled in crisp morning light. I thought I could see the Severn estuary in the far distance but at top speed on the dual carriageway I couldn't gawp at the view for very long to be certain. The road descends into the Avon valley and I continued west until I hit the river and turned right to follow its course to its headwaters. After ten miles I arrived at the village of Upavon where I had booked a day ticket on a beat of the upper Avon under the control of Rushall Organics. Laszlo, my old fishing friend from Birmingham, was to meet me and I was looking forward to our reunion after a long absence of three years.

Along the way I stopped briefly at the quaint village of Netheravon where Oliver Kite and Frank Sawyer lived. I wanted to visit Owl cottage where Kite lived, and pay my respects at his grave (Sawyer's home sadly burned to the ground after his death and his ashes scattered next to his beloved river). I partially succeeded. Finding Owl Cottage was easy. There was a light on in the downstairs window and through it I could see an impressive array of whisky bottles on a kitchen counter. It was rather how I imagined the place to have looked when Kite was in residence. I was coincidentally in the midst of reading "A Fisherman's Diary" and Kite seemed to enjoy a dram.

I turned back and drove a few short miles to the cemetery, and spent half an hour fruitlessly searching for Kite's final resting place. When I returned home I found a reference on the internet to his grave being in the churchyard at Netheravon instead. I kicked myself because this was an obvious place to have looked and I should have done my homework before this trip. I'll make sure I visit it the next time I fish the Avon.

I arrived at the beat and parked in the shade of tall poplar trees next to the west tributary of the Avon. Laszlo had messaged me to say he was running late so I went off to explore. The west tributary was discoloured and where it joined the clear east tributary the water downstream of the confluence was disappointingly murky. I had read that the Avon isn't considered a chalkstream in the strictest sense because its west tributary rises in greensand, prone to discolour after rain, and I was looking at the evidence. When Laszlo eventually arrived we shared a happy moment catching up on news whilst we rigged up our rods. Like me, Laszlo had done little fishing since we last saw each other and we both expected a rusty day.

    

With the water dirty we had little choice but to attempt the clear east tributary, a small headwater enclosed by reeds. In places blue flowering water forget-me-nots added a pleasing dash of colour to the scene. Being completely overgrown we had no chance fishing from the bank and had to get in to the water. Being a rather small river every fish in the vicinity pin-ball-machined away as soon as we stepped in. On top of that it was a windy day,  and landing a fly in the right spot on a fine tippet proved tricky. Frequently errant casts found reeds and grass fronds and of course the run would be spoiled (if it wasn't already) by a solid snag. It was fun but it was a bit of a disaster. I should also add that entering the river was relatively easy, but escaping the river and ooze was not! On one occasion I had to resort to grabbing a fistful of nettles to pull myself out on my stomach and up on to the bank. My wrist broke out in blisters from the sting.

By noon the river downstream of the confluence had begun to clear. Laszlo and I walked down to the bottom limit of the beat and as we progressed the river started to look more and more like a chalkstream. Along the way we spotted several fish feeding from the surface, promising an uptick in our fortunes and we mentally noted their position. The banks were alive with an abundance of wildlife. A drab coloured wren bobbed nervously between branches. A pair of buzzards wheeled in the sky. Swans, ducks and moorhens paddled the river eating weeds in varying degrees of confidence. The swans and cygnets were bold, the ducks were wary and the moorhens shy. A kingfisher darted down the course of the river as fast as a bullet. I paused for a while to watch an eye-catching red admiral butterfly flutter between wild flower blooms.

Laszlo and I separated and I ate a pork pie for lunch while I watched a likely looking run. A handful of fish were rising. I entered the water slowly and soon brought a grayling to hand with a klinkhamer. It's amazing how close grayling will let you approach and I could see four of five holding on the gravel no more than two rod lengths from me. It was incredibly exciting to watch them react to the dry fly. They would move only when the fly was already well behind them, turning 180 degrees to chase and snatch it. I'm not sure if this represents normal grayling behaviour but I doubt it - I can't think why they'd want to expend unnecessary energy.

   
I moved upriver and continued to enjoy good sport, catching grayling on the dry fly. A small brown trout of about 6" broke the pattern by taking the dry but I saw little other evidence of trout. Laszlo caught up with me and told me he had caught a few trout on the nymph, including a good size fish which he measured with his outstretched hands as anglers do. The grayling I suspect were a little way ahead of the trout in appreciating the significance of the shortening days. They fed with gusto whilst the trout remained dour.

I was happy to carry on with the dry fly and did so, continuing to catch (and lose) grayling but when I came to an invitingly deep pool with murky depths I tied on a nymph. On my very first cast, the dipping point of my line disappeared under the water and I lifted the rod to feel a substantial weight. I immediately knew I had hooked something in a different class to all that had come in the hours before. The fish hugged the depths at first but then leapt from the water so that I could see it was a good sized brown trout. It lept several times more and after giving a thoroughly good account of itself it came to my net. That fish made my day and I could have packed up and left for home after that.

Throughout the afternoon I spotted several metallic blue beetles drifting down the river. As far as I could tell they appeared to be left alone by the trout. I later found the source upstream, a young alder tree covered in them. I've since had it confirmed by the Wiltshire recorder for beetles that these are Alder leaf beetles (Agelastica Alni) and they have quite a remarkable story. They were believed extinct in the UK for almost 60 years but were rediscovered in Manchester in 2004. Since then, their spread particularly in the north of England has been rapid and they were recorded in Wiltshire in 2016. It's not hard to see why if they typically spread in this way by drifting down watercourses. I wondered why the fish were seemingly disinterested in this plentiful food source, because trout do eat beetles. Perhaps the fish haven't yet keyed in to this new food source. Perhaps the beetles taste bad. Or perhaps, more likely, I just happened to spot the lucky ones.

A good brown trout rose to a CDC & Elk at the head of this pool

     
In the late afternoon I had another small trout but lost two good fish. The latter both took a CDC & Elk. The first was on the line for a good 10 seconds before letting go. The second continues to haunt me. I was so attuned to the blitzkrieg rises of the grayling that when a large snout casually broke the water and calmly sipped the fly, I snatched at it, far too soon, felt a brief weight and then nothing. I should have waited a second or two for the fish to turn before lifting into it, something Kite often stressed in his diary. As much as it was disappointing, haunting misses are welcome. They do just as much as the successes to build a real anticipation for the next trip or season.