Bourne Rivulet, Hampshire

The motorway traffic had been unusually profuse for a Saturday morning and when I turned off to join an empty country lane I relaxed. Within a mile the lane carried me over the River Test at the celebrated fishing estate of Longparish and I paused my car at the bridge, eager to catch a glimpse of the river. Being late in summer in a year without rain I held my breath and hoped to see enough water to make fishing viable. I was relieved to see more water than my worst fears had expected. It would hopefully mean the tributary I was aiming for would be in a similar state. 

I continued on, passing rows of thatched cottages in the quaint villages of Longparish and East Acton. Bruce Springsteen's 'Dancing in the Dark' played on the radio, raising my spirits even more, for as I approached the village of Hurstbourne Priors I felt like a pilgrim in sight of Rome. My final turn took me down a tree-lined avenue to an ancient church where I parked. The sun filtered through the trees in an early morning haze, the air still cool. I had arrived at the Bourne of Harry Plunket Greene.

"...two small streams, like little ribbons, running from under the viaduct down the valley and meeting at a bridge a few hundred yards below."

Plunket Greene is the most famous fly fisher of the Bourne and barely two weeks before I had finished his charming book 'Where The Bright Waters Meet'. I went off to find his final resting place in the quiet churchyard, finding it beside the village's pleasant cricket ground which today looks no different from the black and white image in his century old book. As I admired the boxes of flies and the author's favourite Iron Blue fly which rested upon the headstone, my fishing partner for the day came walking through the churchyard to join me. Bjorn hadn't read the book and viewed me somewhat quizzically as I soaked in the rich atmosphere and hatched the day's plans by references to place names which feature in the book, such as the Beehive and Iron bridges, cascade and viaduct.

We followed a path through a meadow downstream to the Beehive bridge where the Whitchurch road crosses the river. Where possible through openings in the trees we stole furtive glances at the river and were a little worried by the sight of desperately shallow water and trout fleeing from the mere movement of our caps above the bushes. The grainy black and white images from Plunket Greene's book showed that the banks of Bourne were kept cleared in his time, and even Oliver Kite's more recent writings in 'Nymph Fishing in Practice' (1963) stated that "The Bourne hereabouts is completely open on the right or Hurstbourne bank." We found a markedly different picture. The banks were dense with trees and summer growths of all manner of vegetation, without any sign of the intervention of man. Thickets of head high nettle and willow meant we never actually glimpsed the Beehive bridge although we could tell by the proximity of traffic that we were very near. The thought of things returning to a more natural state was a pleasing one but it does make the fishing all the more difficult.

Where the path simply ended at a wall of greenery we beat our way to the river and received the sharp sting of nettles through our clothing. Being nicely hidden we spotted a fish rise about 5 metres upstream in a little bay sheltered by the embrace of tree limbs. I stepped into the cool river first but with a gentle downstream breeze struggled to turn over a #18 CDC olive with a 16 foot leader. I left the water to adjust my set up and Bjorn had his turn. The water was shaded and we couldn't see the fish or know if it had been spooked by our limb-loosening casts. We eventually gave up on that fish and waded upstream. 

We saw substantial numbers of fish in the water but they were wretchedly spooky. Late-summer, low-water chalkstream fishing is challenging enough at the best of times, but this year's drought had the fish sitting in far less water than they are accustomed, and they were especially nervous for it. We moved slowly and searched out the pockets of deeper water and our tactics paid off when a small shrimp pattern brought me a colourful but lethargic grayling of 15 inches, and an emerger brought Bjorn a butter-yellow little trout.

And so it went, with me generally acting as fish spotter, searching out the trout which generally lay where gravels were exposed between sweeping tresses of ranunculus and lime-green starwort, taking turns to cast to the fish which had not already fled at our approach, and which were lying in reasonably accessible places. 

William Daniel of Famous Fishing, who lets this water, had mentioned that very little weed had been cut this year to hold up the lower than normal volume of water. He also mentioned that an August rod had been very successful by cutting the wings and legs off a hawthorn pattern to make a passable imitation of the larvae of an alder leaf beetle. Having found no commercially suitable options for both the adult beetle (a dark metallic blue) and its larvae, I purchased the necessary materials and tied a batch in the weeks leading up to my visit. I studied the leaves and water and was a little disappointed not to see any of them. Adult alder leaf beetles feed for an intense fortnight before entering hibernation and my visit was just too late in the season. No matter, the flies will sit in my box ready for when I do encounter trout in the future gorging on these little beetles as they fall from the trees.

I had also replenished my fly box with a batch of my very effective olive shrimp pattern on #16 and #18 hooks and was delighted when I caught my first trout from the Bourne with one. It was a bonny little fish with cherry red spots and an anal fin edged in ivory, the markings so typical in wild brown trout. Trout are no longer stocked in the Bourne, a rather satisfying thought given the sorrow in Plunket Greene's words about the ruinous stocking of his beloved river so many years before.  

As we approached the cascade - a manmade sluice and waterfall - the river quickened down a gentle gradient which made the water appear less like a classic chalkstream and more like the mountain streams I once fished in Wales. By then I had caught another three trout and a grayling, all taken with a shrimp on a # 18 hook. 

Whilst the trout would scatter at our merest presence the grayling happily shoaled within a rod length from our boots, even if they must've known we stood there. My second grayling was an inch shorter than the first and surprisingly rose to swallow my fly when I lifted my line to cast again to a trout upriver. Unlike the first grayling this one gave a very good account of itself and was eventually on its way to join the rest of its shoal.

The river above the cascade and up to the Iron bridge is known as the broad water, and for long stretches bright sunlight pierced the water because of a mostly treeless right verge. The Bourne here had the appearance of a perfect miniature chalkstream. Pellucid water lazily filtered through weeds and trout stood out starkly on the patches of white gravel where their shadows danced. There are only trout above the cascade. Two ancient chestnut trees many hundreds of years old stood on either bank. Perhaps Plunket Greene may have rested in their shade in his time. The tallest poplar I have ever witnessed towered near one of the chestnuts and was engulfed by parasitic mistletoe, as poplars so often are. Notwithstanding its height poplars are a short lived species and this tree would not have stood at the turn of the 20th century. A red kite and then a buzzard soared above the river and we were pleased to see on several occasions the more rare sight of a kingfisher as it flew past in a hurry letting out its somewhat harsh call of alarm.

I spotted a prodigious trout of 3 lb holding in an impossible lie between two willow branches which grew low over the water on the opposite bank. The gap between the branches was small and filled almost entirely by the trout. It was the perfect place for a fish to hide without hassle. We watched it for a few seconds in awe and when we eventually drew level it sped off in a flash beneath some water celery. It would only be surpassed in scale by one other fish that I later witnessed in the Bourne.

Throughout the day we saw fairly good numbers of trout between 1½ lb and 3 lb and in modern times that is rather good for a wild fishery. I even hooked one, and had it on my line for several seconds as it thrashed the water to a froth and Bjorn whooped. Sadly it went free and I was left to rue what might have been. Bjorn said it must've been 3 lb but I think it was nearer 2 lb. We had been standing beneath a willow which grew over the river, using its shade to conceal us from this particular trout which lay alongside two of its smaller brethren at the head of the pool, 10 metres upstream. I used a roll cast to send my nymph forward and to the right of the largest trout, and when the fly landed on the water the fish immediately swung round to take it. This trout will haunt me for a little while. 

We reached the Iron bridge at 5.30pm by which time I had caught four more trout. The olive shrimp had done the work again until I had run dry of the pattern thanks to the beat's demanding tree branches, and the last of my fish had been caught with a pheasant tail nymph.  Bjorn had enjoyed good success too.

Looking upstream from the Iron bridge

There is an image in Plunket Greene's book where the author wearing a fedora and tweed suit and tie lounges on cropped grass, his back leaning against wooden fence posts beside a pale gravel road. The road leads the eye to the balustrades of the Iron bridge beneath which the Bourne flowed into an invitingly large pool. A flock of sheep grazed in the pasture on the opposite bank. The photo is entitled 'The Iron bridge (after luncheon)'. What is striking is the complete absence of trees in the image except those set on a rise on the far side of the valley. That scene couldn't be any more different today with tall trees and dense vegetation concealing the bridge and the banks of the river both up and downstream. Standing upon the bridge and looking downstream we spied the enormous shape of a trout moving in the shaded pool below. 

The Iron bridge

We doubled back downstream and when we approached the bridge, this time wading up the water, I could just make out a fish holding in front of a small clump of weeds, about two metres downstream of the point where I'd witnessed the large moving shape. I couldn't tell much else about the fish or its size because of the dark light beneath the trees and patterns of shade and glare upon the water. I cast my nymph to the fish from a distance and almost immediately a boil of water disturbed the surface as the trout took it. I struck and felt the hook obtain a weak purchase and then my line went slack. We didn't come across the trout which we had observed from the bridge and I began to suspect that it might have been the pricked fish. Another lost chance!

My eight trout to that point had measured approximately 10, 7, 11, 11, 9, 7, 9 and 12 inches. I was keen on this occasion to keep a note because Plunket Greene recorded an average size of 1½ lbs prior to 1905 (the year when trout were first stocked into the Bourne which coincided with the size of the wild trout taking a turn for the worse). According to my conversion chart, a trout in normal condition of 1½ lbs would be around 16 inches long, an exceptional average by today's standards. Even by 1963, Oliver Kite recorded his three brace limit on a hot August day of 2 lb, 1¾ lb, 1½ lb, 1½ lb, 1¼ lb and 1¼ lb. With a limit in play he wrote of being very selective about the fish he cast to, choosing only the best possible, and it isn't known whether the Bourne was then stocked (he specifically mentioned one being wild). 

Bjorn had evening plans so we returned to our vehicles at the church by 6pm and said our goodbyes. I wanted to fish the stretch of the Bourne at Chapmansford farm which is in sight of the viaduct, so I hopped in my car wearing my still wet waders and drove over a mile upriver. Climbing over the wooden stile I startled three brilliantly white egrets and a grey heron into flight from the river. I'd perhaps witnessed the cause of many of the trout and grayling that I had caught having deep scars. The low water this year has probably shifted the odds in the birds' favour.

I had been warned about the large trout which inhabit the pool beneath the bridge. I watched the pool for a while and saw no sign of them or indeed any fish. It was a deep pool and its tail water spilled out at a right angle. I wanted to use a heavier fly and after rooting around my fly box settled on a larger variant of my very simple olive shrimp which I'd tied on a Czech nymph hook a few days before. I lobbed the fly into the tail several times without response, and then with keen anticipation sent it into the narrow current which emerged from beneath the bridge and raced into the pool. My line was shortly tugged below the water and my strike sent a powerful fish haring off downstream into the pool. The trout was full of spirit and only succumbed after a relentless sequence of runs initiated by the vision of my waiting net. It was plump and at 14 inches had a good chance of being an ounce or two over 1 lb. Finally landing a trout which I could measure in pounds rather than inches was a lovely way to finish my day.

Seeing no other obvious way to do it I crawled awkwardly beneath the bridge on my haunches, taking care not to hit my head, but not before spooking an enormous and noticeably dark trout from an undercut within the deceptively deep pool. It looked like a log and was surely some way north of 3 lb. Just upstream of the bridge I stood and admired the view in reverence. In the distance was the red brick viaduct which carries the London to Salisbury train line. The pool I was standing in was the meeting point of the two small ribbon-like streams which feature so prominently in the book. Just standing there, in that iconic place, admiring the beautiful scene, was enough for me and with a long drive home I knew that I had consumed all the enjoyment I possibly could from the bright waters of this pleasant little stream. The fishing had been extremely challenging and that always enhances the value of the exercise but, for the most part, my pleasure was derived from the river's romantic charm and the spirit of Plunket Greene, which lives on today. 

I had believed this was to be a once in a lifetime visit but after a first taste I wish to return in a season of more water. If I do, I will look to succeed with at least one of the Bourne's larger trout for I am left with a sense of unfinished business.