River Lambourn, Berkshire

I fished the stretch of the River Lambourn at Donnington Grove this past Saturday. The Gothic revival mansion which stands on the estate was built in 1763 and is now a hotel and golf country club. The building is perhaps best known for being the childhood home of Beau Brummell in the 1780s. Beau Brummell had an interesting life, reaching far above his station in the hierarchical society of the day by his good looks, charm and elegant dress style, before dying a pauper, insane from syphilis, in Paris, where he had fled to avoid his debtors in England. His name has become synonymous in the marketing world for style and elegance, lending itself to several products. I'm sure he would have approved of the apple green Lamborghini parked outside his old home. 

The river flows through the picturesque grounds of the hotel and golf course. Before you reach the hotel, two bridges cross the river and the bottom extent of a large lake. I stopped my car on the bridge over the river and gazed into the glassy water. It looked picture perfect - small, wild and fast flowing. My hopes for the day soared. 

I sat at an outdoor table next to the mansion and poured myself a cup of coffee from a flask. The lake was alive with all manner of wildfowl. I could see the larger swans and geese but was too far away to identify the smaller varieties, although I'm sure there were ducks and coots among them. A driving range is beside the lake and somebody was having a bad day, hitting several golf balls into the water. 

I didn't have long to wait for my friend Geoff to arrive and we caught up on news. Geoff and I go back a long way to the time we played in the same university cricket team at the turn of the millennium. Geoff is a regular at stillwater fishing venues but was keen to give river fishing a try for the first time.             

A chalkstream can be an exacting place for a tyro but fortunately the very bottom of the beat offered a good place for Geoff to learn. There was a deep, wide expanse of open water downstream of a weir, and the turbulent water provided a forgiving mask to our approach. We could see several fish in the water, including a very large one in the prime lie at the eye of the pool. It wasn't long before Geoff caught his very first river trout on a pheasant tail nymph. His grin says it all.

    

Hopefully the first of many for Geoff!

Geoff fishing the good pool at the downstream limit of the beat

I tried to catch the large fish in the pool. My first cast overshot the mark by some way. It turned out to be an otherwise perfect drift past the roots of a tree on the opposite bank. It was just the sort of place you'd expect to find a fish, and a decent trout took the nymph and came to the net. Looking at its fins I suspect it was a stocked fish, not that it mattered to me.

The large fish was very active, moving from side to side in the slack water in the eye of the pool. I just don't think I ever got a nymph to drift past it within range. I did pick up three small trout trying though. Geoff had a fair crack too. He was surprised at how quickly the trout took and expelled the nymph before his strike. Nymphing requires full attention and catlike reflexes. Coming from a stillwater background, he confessed that he was far more used to a solid tug letting him know when to strike. Once Geoff had got the gist of what to do, we separated and I went upstream to seek out more fish. 

I was pleased that the country club has left a verdant wild corridor between the river and golf course. When I was in the water it was easy to forget there was a golf course just yards away. Only the odd cry of "fore!" would shake me from my reverie. Seeing several golf balls in the water suggested I wasn't always out of range of an errant shot but luckily none came my way.  

The water was exceptionally clear and it offered wonderful sight fishing opportunities in shallow water. 

The fish were actively feeding subsurface and the nymph brought success. By lunchtime, I had caught and released another eight little trout, all of them lissome native trout of the river.

We returned to the outdoor table beside the hotel to share a lunch. Whilst I ate a sausage roll Geoff recounted how he had managed to catch a trout from the big pool all on his own and I was pleased for him. I suggested to Geoff that given how vigorously the trout were feeding, the afternoon held great promise for a hatch and chance to use a dry fly. Unfortunately, it never materialised. I saw sparse evidence of rising trout, no more than a handful of rises all day. It was just one of those days. In fact, I would only go on to catch three more fish and the afternoon is best remembered for two haunting near misses. They still weigh heavily on my mind.

First, the success. I spotted a good sized fish nymphing in water no more than a foot deep directly ahead of me. It moved effortlessly in the water as it fed on drifting morsels. I cast a small nymph upstream of the fish and when it drifted within range the fish moved to its left to intercept it. I lifted my rod and the fish exploded with energy, darting for the roots of a tree standing on the true right bank. I applied substantial side strain and when its run was halted, it took off downstream like an express train. I followed it, splashing through the water like a territorial bull hippo to keep up, and wondered initially if this was a rainbow trout. I managed to get the fish upstream of me again, a far better place for it to be, and finally into the net. It was only then that I noticed it had been foul hooked, and I felt a little guilty about it. 

Geoff came to find me at 4 p.m. to let me know he had to leave for a father's day engagement. As I stood talking to him, saying goodbye, I spotted a very good sized trout holding under the tree branches on the far bank. It looked to be around 19 or 20 inches long. It was a virtually impossible cast to make but after several failed attempts I managed to land a nymph in a gap in the tree branches a little way upstream and sufficiently near the far bank. I watched the trout stiffen, then move to its left and I lifted the rod and joyously felt the connection through the fly line. I saw the trout writhe in contempt, but the hook dislodged without setting properly. A pity.  

In the next two hours, as the air began to cool and shadows fell on the water, I covered a lot of the river without much joy. I began to encounter more grayling and saw several large specimens which looked to be in the 2lb range. They proved impossible to tempt though! I did catch a small grayling, the first of the year, and pleasingly managed to tempt a small brown trout to take a CDC & Elk, so the day wasn't completely without dry fly success.  

In the pool just beneath the golfer's bridge near the hotel, a decent sized trout was holding just below the lip of a submerged red brick. It obviously liked its position in the river, because it was happily feeding on nymphs between repeatedly seeing off a smaller trout which insisted on returning to a holding station just downstream of it. I still had the CDC & Elk on and cast it upstream of the fish. The fish went rigid and then lifted in the water as the dry approached, its nose almost touching the fly. It turned downstream, following the fly, all the while continuing to scrutinise it. I held my breath and it seemed an age before it scornfully dismissed the fly and returned to the brick. What a way to set the heart racing! 

I tried several smaller CDC patterns, all of which were ignored, before tying on a fly which seems to tempt even the fussiest of trout - a #24 Griffiths Gnat. Sure enough, on its first drift, as I strained to see the tiny fly, the trout came up to inspect it and then broke the water's surface with its pointed snout to sip it in. In the excitement of the moment I struck far too soon and missed the take. I don't think the trout felt the fly, because it returned to the brick and continued to feed. My sense of disappointment grew as the fish rejected the Gnat after that, and all the others that followed, including nymphs. Several times more it rose in the column and minutely scrutinised my offerings before scorning them. It was very exciting, if a little frustrating. 

It was approaching 7 p.m. and I had to leave on time, so I was forced to give up on the fish. When I walked upstream, the trout seemed truly shocked to see me, darting away in stunned panic. It was feeding so intently that it had been oblivious to my presence all along.

I hadn't fished the entire length of the beat and I looked wistfully at the reed-lined run above the bridge. A fish rose at the very top in what looked to be a slashing rise at a caddis fly. This is a delightful little chalkstream and I will return in another season to discover what lies upstream. It's the sort of question I'll no doubt ponder over the winter, when my rod has been stored away. Anticipation and haunting near misses are very much a part of what makes angling so special.