River Meon at Droxford, Hampshire

I enjoyed fishing the River Meon at Exton so much last month, that when I was asked for a birthday present idea, I had no hesitation in suggesting a day on the only other publicly available stretch of this marvellous little chalkstream. That's the beat two miles downriver from Exton at Droxford. My birthday wish came true: I had the day off work, a forecast of fine weather and over a mile of the Meon for my exclusive enjoyment. Once again, this little chalkstream blew my socks off. 

I deliberately ignored my sat nav's suggestion of a driving route past the urban sprawls of Worthing, Chichester and Portsmouth. I chose instead the road which winds through the South Downs National Park, following the course of the River Rother and passing through the historic towns of Petworth and Midhurst. Later, a few miles before the town of Petersfield, a sign signalled the boundary between West Sussex and Hampshire, and soon the sight of beige wheat fields planted on rolling chalk hills would confirm that I was in England's pre-eminent chalkstream county. 

I turned off the busy A32 road and followed a single track country lane until I arrived at a bridge spanning the River Meon, the rough halfway point of the beat. I parked, poured myself a last cup of coffee, and went to peer over the bridge. Looking downstream, a deep pool had been scoured, and towards the tail of the pool a fish gently sipped emergers from the water's surface. It was a promising sign. 

Looking downstream from the bridge, a fish dimples the water's surface. 

I couldn't start the day without trying to catch the fish rising in the pool below the bridge. I cast out a small klinkhamer and reminded myself that if the fish took the fly, I should wait a second or two before striking, because that is the way to deal with trout sipping emergers. Of course, when the gentle sip came, I struck far too soon. The fish was pricked and went down to sulk. Never mind, I would return to this pool later. 

I walked through the pasture to the very bottom of the beat, taking care to avoid stepping on cow dung and wild buttercups. An old, disused railway embankment followed the true left bank and at times, through the trees, I could see cyclists, horse riders and dog walkers making use of the lofty path. 

The river is mostly shallow and, as you would expect, the fish were extremely spooky. At the downstream extent of the beat I cast a klinkhamer into a long, fast flowing riffle which served to conceal my presence, and brought up two wild brown trout in succession. 

 

Where I couldn't see fish, I prospected with a dry fly. I covered sumptuous looking water in the bends of the river, the shrubby margins and the braided gravel channels between water weed. A trout came up to look, but shied away, and I received no further interest in the dry fly after that moment. A switch to a nymph brought immediate success with a third trout, taken from a slow section under the canopy of trees, where I could see the trout on the riverbed. 

The river held surprisingly deep pockets of water, deep enough to spill over my chest waders had I tried to walk through them. From the green depths of one of them I hooked two trout, which felt hefty, but I lost them both. It was late morning by then and I was beginning to fish rather badly. Forcing casts, hooking tree branches, spending time undoing knots in the leader. I had skipped breakfast and was feeling hungry. I realised I was rushing through the water and fishing poorly because of it. My packed lunch was in my car boot and I decided to walk back to the car and eat lunch, leaving some good water for later. I did cast a nymph into the deep pool below the bridge on the way back to the car - I couldn't resist - and caught the best of the trout yet. That was a good way to bring my morning session to an end.

The water immediately upstream of the bridge had a very different nature. It was glassy smooth, wide and slow flowing. It served as a microscope and I could see several fish in the water, but of course, they could see me just as well. I had spooked most of the trout at the rear of a pool, causing them to flee upriver, when something caught my eye. It was the largest fish I had seen so far, doing a full circle. It had chased off a smaller rival, one the fish I had caused to spook upriver and enter its realm. I froze and watched this fish, clearly the boss of the pool, as it settled back into its position in the prime feeding lie. It adopted the content, feeding behaviour of an active trout, with its tail billowing like drapes in the wind. Once more it darted away to chase off a smaller trout before returning to its feeding station. It was so preoccupied in defending its territory that it had not seen me. 

Taken after the event I have marked the place in the water where the fish was holding. Shallow and clear, perfect for sight nymphing.

I have only begun to fish chalkstreams consistently this year and one of the greatest differences from fishing a freestone river is the ability to sight nymph. A sight indicator is a comfort blanket but completely superfluous in ideal chalkstream conditions. In flat, skinny water like this, it can be a hindrance too. This was the perfect opportunity to develop my sight nymphing skill, because I could see every minute movement made by the trout. I still felt apprehensive, like a small child being asked to ride a bicycle without training wheels for the first time, because I haven't quite established the perfect time to strike on sight. It's impossible to see the nymph in the water and a lot of it is down to sheer guesswork and reading the fish's behaviour. I suspect until now I have have been striking too soon and good fish have been lost as a result. 

I crept into a casting position without spooking the fish, collected myself and then delivered a perfect cast. The nymph landed a metre upstream of the trout with a gentle plop. After a second the trout moved about a foot to its left in an exaggerated fashion and at first I thought it had moved to avoid my artificial fly. I did nothing, but something, whether a slight check in my line or just an instinct made me strike. The fish recoiled at the pressure, shaking its head furiously. The hook had set. I had done it! The slight delay in the strike seemed to be exactly what was needed. The fish charged all over the pool, putting up a tremendous fight and I was relieved when it lost heart and came to the net. At around 16 inches long, it was easily the largest fish I spotted in the Meon, and this single moment has been the most enjoyable of the 2020 season so far. It's amazing what a full stomach can do to improve your fishing!

The trout swims away after release.

I fished the rest of the upper section without any success. For the most part this section is hemmed in by barbed wire fencing to keep the cattle out, leaving a natural, wild corridor of grasses, trees and stream side wildflowers. Here the river is very similar to the Exton Manor Farm beat.

I walked back to the downstream section to fish the water I had left for last, including some very promising water under a huge willow tree. Six more trout found their way to my net. All took the nymph in the deepest sections of river. 

The highlight of the evening was seeing a kingfisher. I have only ever seen them in frenetic whirring flight, but this one landed on a perch above the pool I was fishing. It saw me, only about five metres away, and flew away after a brief moment. I had seen huge numbers of fingerling trout all day, a good sign for the health of this river - and the kingfisher. Little wonder that I also spotted an egret and a grey heron during the day.

It was a wonderful birthday gift and I couldn't have asked for better. The Meon has firmly ensconced itself as a favourite of mine.