River Piddle, Dorset

Last season was the first since I have fished the chalkstreams that I heard people complain there was too much water. In truth the abundance resulted in a pretty poor fishing season. Fewer insects seemed to hatch and when they did, the trout remained dour, holding fast to the gravel bed as if they might be blasted out to the ocean if they attempted to take a winged fly.  

This season has reached a whole new level thanks to record rainfall in the winter - a trend which has continued into spring. The chalkstreams which draw their water from the ground are bursting at their seams. 

I was aware of all of this when I booked a beat on the River Piddle, figuring that any fishing was better than no fishing. It also meant a welcome few nights away from home in Dorset, one of my favourite English counties, which is just far enough away from home to feel like a proper holiday too.

I had been sent a barely intelligible map of the beat in advance and finding the venue proved to be a pleasant challenge. I set off with my family in the car on the morning before my booked day to find it. Kept on our toes by passing tractors, we followed a maze of narrow lanes through quaint thatched villages, many of which drew their name from the river (eg. Puddletown, Tolpuddle, Briantspuddle, Affpuddle, etc). With both boys now asleep in the car we stopped at the bridges along the way so I could gaze into the waters below. The river looked especially good from the Briantspuddle bridge, where I spotted around six trout. Whilst watching the largest of them, a fish of around 3 lb, it started to rain. I pulled my hood up little knowing that a rain of near biblical proportions would fall in the next 24 hours.  

Continuing down the valley I found the footbridge at the top of my beat at the little village of Throop and later the road bridge at the bottom, near a watercress farm. From this bridge I spied a trout of around 4 lb beside the abutment, facing downstream in the back eddy of an enormous bridge pool. The trout melted into the depths of the pool when I raised my camera above the parapet to take a photo of it. 

14 May

The following morning thankfully dawned clear of rain and I was dropped off at the watercress farm at 9 am. My family would collect me at the upper bridge, about a mile away, at 5pm. Tractors went back and forth over the watercress beds, dragging what looked like cricket pitch rollers.

After the previous day's deluge the water was the colour of beef soup. There would be no spotting and stalking of trout in the typical chalkstream sense. The water was now also something a white water rafter might take an interest in, or thrill seekers at the log plume ride at the fun fair. White horses aren't normally associated with chalkstreams. Choppy water isn't conducive to picking off lazy feeders with a carefully presented dry fly either. 

The short run of water downstream of the watercress farm comprised a large pool which then flowed through a broad section to the road bridge I had visited the day before. It was impossible to go as far downstream as the bridge to see if there was any sign of the monster trout I had witnessed there.

Whilst I was pondering where to access the river my attention was distracted by a mayfly struggling in the wind, pushed upstream until it plummeted into the water behind a partially submerged willow. It had been so near to reaching the willow, but life’s cruel fate had intervened and, within a second, it had been consumed by a trout.

That welcome sight settled my pondering and I gingerly stepped into the water and sent my #14 klinkhamer to the same water, with the same result. One second. Splash. The trout was hooked for a moment and then went free. Pity.

I sent my fly to another run upstream and achieved the same result. This trout held the fly for a second or two before escaping. I checked the point of my fly, but it looked functional enough.

Further upriver I went, approaching the pool. I sized up the complex patterns of the currents which coursed at altering speeds between islands of grasses and ranunculus, selected a promising looking run, and had my first trout to hand. Then a second, shortly thereafter from another run. I repeated the feat at the pool, surprised when a trout rocketed up from the depths to take my fly, mere moments before the inevitable drag set in.

With trees sheltering me from any material effect of the wind, and the trout having shown a propensity to rise to the fly, I was blissfully happy. I didn’t yet know that the broad width of the river in this section was masking just how full the river was.

My instructions had said to look for a footbridge, which I needed to wade under, and then to continue wading until I was clear of the watercress farm (about 200m). I was to then look for a blue rope which I could use to clamber up the bank.  When I saw the dangerous volume of water passing beneath the bridge it was clear that I’d be a fool to even attempt it. I managed to instead circumvent the bridge and a tall wire fence by risking my waders in some brambles.

The river fell down a gradient and was funnelled by steep banks. I had to pull my chest waders up as high as they could stretch but water still poured over the top on occasion. I felt a little unnerved at my predicament and I strained to make every footfall count in the racing current. I was hugely relieved when, around 200m upstream, I could drag myself up the bank, the blue rope nowhere in sight, but now clear of the watercress farm's perimeter fence. 

The river took on a different character as I emerged from a wood into an open pasture. The river here appeared to have been straightened in the past and because it flowed down a reasonable gradient, resembled a flume or chute.  I thought on more than one occasion that it would have appealed more to a kayaker or team of white-water rafters. Choppy water was no place for a dry fly, so I repeatedly threw out a heavy nymph as I went, going slowly, one hour becoming two, my shoulder growing tired. Not the merest sniff of a trout and it was likely my nymph wasn’t sinking to the correct depth. This wasn’t pleasant.

Exposed to the elements a cold wind buffeted my coat. The wind came from the east which fortunately meant that it propelled my fly upriver, but I was reminded of the old saying ‘wind from the east, fish bite least’. 

I paused to eat my lunch and rest my shoulder and my mind began to drift. A thought so heretical came into my mind that I questioned whether to repeat it here, but then this is an honest diary. 

Unusually for a chalkstream this beat hadn’t issued rules which limited fly choice. I wondered whether a streamer might be effective. There, I said it.

Most if not all of the chakstreams retain rules which are remnants of Victorian era ideals, when the dry fly was de rigueur and the choice of the sporting gentleman. I hasten to add that it was also a time when hatches of insects were reportedly so great as to completely obscure the far bank. What a time that must have been. As a result many chalkstream beats today still frown upon the use of nymphs and perhaps they need to evolve to changing times. A streamer, however, is most certainly taboo. 

I’d never before encountered a situation where I felt the need to use a streamer in a chalkstream. As an unknown quantity I rationalised my thought as a scientific experiment of sorts, in the interests of furthering the body of angling knowledge.

I looked over both shoulders to rule out anyone watching, and cast a black streamer downstream to the tail of a deep pool. Within two strips there were multiple boils of water behind the fly, but nothing more as I held my breath. On the second cast there was a jarring pull by the third strip. A fish was on! The trout glinted in the brown depths as it turned to its side, and then threw the hook.

I turned to my left and sent the streamer upstream, past the narrow pinch point at the head of the pool. Two strips and BANG! A savage take. A trout far superior in size to the three I had caught early came – a little guiltily I hasten to add – downstream into the pool and a little while later into my net. There isn’t much fun in stealing candy from a baby, so I snipped off the streamer with mixed feelings. I felt a little dirty, as if I’d cheated, even though this was a moral issue rather than a flagrant rule breach. At the same time I also felt quite triumphant, as if I’d just graduated with honours from the school of f*** you ingenuity.

Well, that at least settled my experiment. I knew now with my own empirical evidence why streamers remained keenly outlawed on chalkstreams. Far better to think of the trout as a wily adversary.

Karma had been awakened by my mixed feelings and a little way upstream I dropped my phone in the river. The phone has since died a permanent death, even though it continues to sit in a bag of rice grains on a sunny windowsill at home, hopeful that one day it might magically switch on and I may retrieve the photos and videos now dearly missed. I really shouldn’t have ignored the prompts to back up my data!

A heavy nymph with an orange hotspot accounted for three trout and I figured the hotspot might have rendered the fly more visible in the discoloured water. It seemed to reach the right depth too, because it snagged on something down below and was lost, and that was sadly the only hotspot nymph in my box. 

Once out of the pasture the top section of the beat reverted to type. Wooded, with natural bends, the water flowed a little more gently and here the trout were once again showing an interest in mayfly. A Mohican pattern accounted for three trout in the pool downstream of the top bridge. I was pleased to have partaken in some mayfly fun this season. 

That made it ten trout, the beat’s catch and release limit. It was almost 5 pm and it wasn’t long before I heard my eldest son come running down the path beneath the river, excitedly looking for me.

It was a hard day of fishing, and dangerous at times. A case of visiting the Piddle at the wrong time, but you won’t hear any complaints from me about too much water!