River Meon at Exton, Hampshire

The Meon is a captivating river. It looked resplendent even under the dark, moody skies of an approaching weather front. Banks of white-flowering cow parsley channelled swiftly flowing water of unimaginable clarity over bright gravel and sweeping clumps of water-crowfoot. Grey Wagtails flitted between the floating decks of crowfoot searching for food. Blackbirds sang from the hedgerows. House Martins dived low over the water, constantly calling to each other. A water vole briefly emerged from the leafy margins, saw me, and retreated. The river was alive and it was everything I had hoped for. 

The Meon is the most easterly of Hampshire's chalkstreams. The very beat I fished, at Exton Manor Farm, appeared on the cover of the April 2019 issue of Trout & Salmon magazine. The heading screamed "Dry-fly Dreams - find idyllic chalkstream sport this spring". Okay, I may have waited a year, but the magazine's exhortation proved prophetic. I can now understand why Paul Proctor, one of the UK's pre-eminent fly fishermen, ranks the Meon in his top five finest trout streams in Britain. It is now firmly entrenched in my own top five of charming, intimate, wild trout streams anywhere in the world.

The record book in the hut painted a somewhat bleak picture of recent weeks' fishing. Hot weather had been blamed for most of the past fortnight but the last three entries blamed cold weather. I had arrived at the stroke of the permitted time, at 09.30 a.m., because the weather forecast suggested a rain front was due to hit the Meon valley in the early afternoon. There was a blustery wind and it was cold enough for me to first take shelter in the hut and drink hot coffee from a flask.

I slipped gingerly into the water at the very downstream limit of the beat, where the water was a charming tapestry of weaving gravel courses and white-flowering crowfoot. I watched the water for ages, looking for signs of life in the small spaces between the crowfoot. There were no rises. Seeing no other hint of aquatic life I returned to the hut to enjoy a salami sandwich for brunch and the last of the coffee.

I decided to forego the promising looking stretch of water directly in front of the hut. I figured the fish in this section would probably be the most discerning in the beat. I'd return to it later if need be. I entered the water above the footbridge and slowly made my way upstream. I spooked a little fish of around 6 or 7" from under the weeds, a milestone of sorts, in knowing that there were fish present. A little further on I spotted a fish of around 10" when it gave away its presence by turning on its side to feed. I tied on a small pheasant tail nymph and as the fly drifted down towards the fish, the fish moved to intercept it. I lifted the rod to feel an unbridled indignation. It was only for a moment, because the hook dislodged. Sight fishing is very exciting and my adrenaline was running high from the thrill.

Olives were now hatching but I still hadn't seen a rise. House Martins fed on the wing, swooping low to the river and acrobatically past me. I assumed the fish were still sullen from the recent dramatic shift in weather, and as I pondered this, a light rain began to fall earlier than forecast. After three hours of fishing I was resigned to going without any dry fly sport but then I thought I saw a rise some way upstream. I couldn't be sure of it but my heart lifted nonetheless. It was an easy spot to mark, in the margin of the true left bank, beneath the cow parsley, right behind one of their ball-shaped flowers which was half submerged in the water causing a ripple. I tied on a small CDC olive pattern and patiently stalked my way into a position to make the challenging cast. The fish, if there was one, hadn't moved since and I began to doubt if it had been a rise at all. My first two casts were a little wayward - the blustery wind played havoc with my light tippet. My third cast was better, and when the fly drifted inches past the cow parsley flower the water erupted as a fish took the fly in a slashing rise. It was a winsome, ethereal trout of 10", speckled in the rich red colour of chilli peppers.

The fish rose behind the cow parsley flower touching the water, roughly in the middle of the image.

As I released the fish, another rose in a pool upstream. A magic switch had suddenly been flicked. I changed to a fresh CDC pattern and this time the fish gently broke the surface with its snout and daintily sipped the fly. It was a little larger than the first, at 13". This fish had a mature, predatory look about it, quite different to the first trout.

I witnessed two more rises before I reached the beat's end. I rose one, but failed to hook it, and spooked the other. Drag is a thorny issue on a stream like this, where there are a multitude of competing, swirling currents. It made for a pleasantly intricate day of fishing. I felt like I had worked hard and been rewarded suitably with two splendid wild trout. The Meon captured my heart and I would love to return someday.