River Allen, Dorset

The River Allen is apparently one of the most private of all the English chalkstreams. Almost all of the river's modest 13 mile length is under the ownership of two large English estates which have been in the same families for many generations (one being the Earl of Shaftesbury). I have had my eye on the River Allen all season long, because it's the nearest chalkstream in Dorset to my home. I could just about make a day trip to it and hopefully catch a first trout from a new county. When I saw that a day ticket beat on the Earl's water near the village of Wimborne St. Giles was being offered at a discounted price this September, I jumped at the opportunity to sample it. Everybody loves a bargain.

When I caught my first glimpse of the river from the narrow road bridge, I began to worry. The water level was extremely low. In the wide pool downstream of the bridge the water flowed no higher than the laces of my wading boots. I confess to thoughts about being sold a late season dud. Fortunately, my initial concerns were quite horribly misplaced. I discovered that there were deep pools at the lower and upper limits of the beat as well as several fish holding runs in between. It also transpired that I had the entire beat to myself for the day and I enjoyed the solitude and freedom to roam. It turned out to be a very enjoyable day after all.

As I walked down the beat to its lowest limit the river began to form a series of slow-flowing holding pools. I could see there were fish aplenty in these pools and I relished the chance to return on my way back upriver and target them. To avoid spooking these fish I tried to keep a distance between the river and myself as I tread the freshly mown waterside path. 

The river gradually became 'wilder' in feel as I went, progressively congested by reeds and water weeds. I spotted some very large trout lying in places which were impossible to cast to. For a little while I tried and lost an inordinate amount of flies to the reeds and trees and spooked many trout. I enjoy this combat style of fishing, because it takes effort and thought, and the rewards may often be great. I paused only to watch a kingfisher fly rapidly down the river in a blur of squawking blue, followed by two more shortly after.

I came to the first real opening of water in the reeds. I really needed a much longer rod and a long handled net, but I cast my self tied olive and pink blend shrimp into the near still water and held my rod high. A fish of around a pound took the fly and gave a brief but spirited account for itself before the hook dislodged from its lip. Damn.

There were several other trout in the pool so I cast again, and the largest of them came to investigate my fly and took it. I lifted my rod as high as I could over the reeds and waded into the water, managing to force a small opening where I could net the fish. I stood in the water and admired the trout, my first from Dorset. It was in terrific condition and brightly coloured. At 18 inches long, I doubted I would catch a better fish from this little river.     

The very next pool upstream flowed sedately and was also enveloped by reeds. I flicked my olive shrimp into the head of the pool and hooked another good fish. I had to play the trout downstream to where there was a gap in the reeds, leaving open a narrow access to the water's edge. The water looked shallow there, so without any further thought I stepped from the bank into the water so that I could net the trout conveniently. Rather than finding firm gravel, I plunged into ooze. The water came up to my chest and drained over the top of my waders, and I realised in dismay that looks can be deceiving! Even as I floundered I managed to keep the line taut and held on to land the trout, but I felt soggy and damp for the rest of the day.

In the next five hours I caught four more trout with the nymph as the water became progressively shallower and the fish commensurately spookier. These fish were all between 10 and 14 inches.

After lunch, I came to a good looking run of water beneath a tree where at least three trout were rising sporadically. My offerings were initially ignored but when I tied on an extra length of 7x tippet, a snout broke the water's surface against the left bank and sipped in my CDC Olive. I struck and the trout bolted upstream like a bull released in the streets of Pamplona. The tippet parted before it got very far. That must have been some fish. I did manage to catch the trout rising against the right bank and again marvelled at its beautifully coloured disposition.    

I spooked the remainder of the pool and with every step I took, I shepherded three trout upstream until they settled in the next pool. One of them was large and I suspected it was the tippet breaker. Suddenly an even larger trout swung down into the pool and snapped at Tippet Breaker's tail, sending it fleeing past me and back downstream. The dominant larger fish returned to its lie in water a foot deep, beneath a low hanging tree branch. I watched it for a while as it settled back into an active feeding routine. With a side cast, I delivered my dry fly beneath the tree branch and the trout inspected the CDC & Elk pattern in a heart-stopping moment before rejecting it. I replaced the dry fly with a small nymph and after two fruitless drifts of the fly past the trout, the brute turned 180° on the third drift, raced downstream after my fly, and took it with a savage force. I struck and managed to hold on until the fish was netted. It appeared perhaps a little too slender for its length, but a 21 inch trout felt special from a river as small as the Allen.

The next section of the river was especially low and I spotted only very small, skittish trout. Fishing became secondary to my enjoyment of the outdoors. The Allen is a wonderful looking chalkstream. It has been left pleasingly wild and the corridor of bankside vegetation must provide excellent cover for the fish. The gravels on the streambed were as white as I have seen in any chalkstream. 

The final section of the river is above a trout farm. I followed a narrow grass path around the boundary of the farm, wary not to touch the electric fence. The water is impounded by a concrete weir at the top of the farm and only a trickle of water came over the weir in the river's historic channel. The majority of water was diverted through the trout farm. 

For around 50m upstream of the weir the water was like a lake, where the trout cruised around in schools or alone. They had no truck with my flies. I followed the path upstream and just where the current became perceptible again, I spotted a good fish holding stationary in the water. I cast a #22 bead head pheasant tail nymph ahead of the fish and witnessed it open and close its mouth in a flash of white. I struck in that instant, hoping it had taken my small fly, and enjoyed enormously the double sensation of feeling resistance in the line and seeing the fish shake its head in anger. Once again, it was a fine looking trout. Its top half was olive and brown, descending through a shade of mauve to an underside of golden yellow. Its lateral line was adorned in cherry red spots while its shoulders and back featured large black spots. Something about this water made the fish dress for the occasion.  

Much of the very top of the beat was overgrown and the water was again very low. I enjoyed walking up this section, admiring the open country views and watching out for several drab pheasant hens that erupted in cackling flight from the bankside vegetation. The pheasant cock proudly walked the grass path ahead of me, always keeping a distance. 

At the very top of the beat I found an unexpected surprise - a secret and pretty pool shrouded by the shadows of encircling trees. At the tail of the pool, just before the silt gave way to clean washed gravel, I spied a good fish. I watched my dry fly drift past the immovable trout a few times and then tied on and cast a small nymph to it. When the nymph came into range the trout moved sharply to its left and took it. It put up an extraordinary fight which lasted several minutes. Every time I believed I had the measure of the trout, and readied my net, it seemed to gain more strength and took line by running back into the depths of the pool. When I finally netted it, I saw that it had a recent wound on its left flank - a near perfect round hole the diameter of a 2p coin. I suspect one of the many grey herons I had seen earlier had struck it with a sharp beak. Given the small amount of blood which billowed from the wound into the water as I released it, the attack must have been recent. I was amazed that the trout was back in an open feeding lie so soon afterwards. Trout are hardier than we anglers often credit them.  

Two fish were rising at the head of the pool and I waded into deeper water to reach them. Stewart Hand, the river keeper, appeared whilst I was standing thigh deep in the water and introduced himself, and we spoke briefly. He keeps a well run river with just the right balance in my opinion between maintenance and a natural state. After Stewart departed, I spent half an hour trying to tempt the trout in the pool without any joy and eventually called it quits just before 6 p.m. 

What a wonderful place to relax and enjoy the English countryside

In the image above, you can just make out the ruins of Knowlton Church on the crest of the hill. I stopped to look at the ruins of the Norman church on the drive home. It was extensively remodelled in the 14th century and stands inside a late Neolithic Henge monument, constructed c.2500 B.C. The Henge consists of a ring bank with two entrances and an internal ditch, probably meant for ceremonial use. A real weight of history pervaded my thoughts, knowing that for thousands of years prior visiting worshippers would most likely have drawn their drinking supply and bathed in the watercourse I had just fished. Perhaps some of them even caught their dinner from the river.

The days are growing shorter now as winter approaches. The trout fishing season nears an end within a matter of days. It's a dispiriting thought. I'll look back on this day fondly in the coming winter months.