I noticed the fish on each pass I made up and down the beat. How could you not? The dark torpedo shaped leviathan had claimed a small eddy on the far bank of the stream, well shaded and protected by overhanging limbs, a perfect ambush spot for the bug buffet that swept by in the current. On each pass, I’d sent over an unacceptable offering – first a hopper, then a damselfly, followed by a beetle, and finally a caddis. The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and my time here was coming to a fishless end. I tied on a gaudy daddy long legs, and slung a perfect delivery just upstream of the eddy. A stirring! The fly drifted into the beast’s cone of vision, and he began a casual glide towards the surface, characteristic of a curious fish. But would he take it?
On Sunday my wife and I took a break from the busy streets of London and made our way out into the beautiful English countryside for a day of fly fishing on the River Test at Bossington Estate. An easy trip from The City – an hour train ride and a 15 minute taxi ride – put us in an Eden of fly fishing. We had a beat of approximately 500 yards, all to ourselves, with a picturesque fishing cabin to retreat to in the case of rain or severe trout-induced frustration. The bank was regularly mowed for perfect access, except for the occasional stand of wildflowers and shrubs that offered both cover to cast behind and an observatory for insects. The stream was a perfectly clear, gently flowing ribbon with reasonably thick vegetation, overhanging tree limbs, an occasional riffle, and hordes of trout.
They were all easily visible; the stream’s relatively light colored bedrock gave them away – rainbows and browns. They weren’t actively rising, but occasionally pierced the calm surface with their slimy noses to slurp an unseen insect. My wife and I walked the entire beat before even attempting a cast, taking in the entire angling playground that was ours for the afternoon. I made mental notes of cover, sun, shade, eddies, and pools, trying to be strategic about how I would approach each fish. Finally I summoned the courage up to tie on a grasshopper pattern and begin fishing (the staff at Orvis in St. James – London assured me that all flies were accepted on The Test, and that the terrestrials would fish well on a hot summer afternoon).
A theatre of refusals ensued. The calm water made it difficult to present the hopper without agitating the fish. Only a gust of wind would disturb the surface enough to let me lay down the heavy fly. I proceeded to try a damselfly – there were plenty buzzing about and it seemed reasonable that the wind would send one into the stream. I got some curious looks, but no commitment. I finally noticed a few caddis caught in spiderwebs along the bank. The caddis drew an immediate strike that I was surely unprepared for; my hair-trigger hands promptly ripped the fly out of the fish’s mouth. I made several trips up and down the beat, each time trying a new fly, and trying to give a long rest interval for each fish I cast to. It was late in the afternoon when I pulled the daddy long legs out of the fly box and thrust him into the starting lineup.
It looked like a ballistic missle submarine conducting an emergency blow. The spider disappeared into a gaping white mouth. Remembering my earlier impatience, I gave a good pause before striking. I’d like to tell you I said God save the Queen, but in the blur of the moment, I can’t be sure. The 5X tippet went taught, the rod bowed deeply, and the fish somersaulted across the water before diving and running 30 feet downstream. For a minute we deadlocked, the fish not budging in the stream, and me not giving anymore line. I slowly guided him towards the near bank, where my wife waited with a net much too small. He gave one last spirited dash upstream before succumbing to the pressure. I backed up with the rod held high and Colleen guided his massive head into the net. After a few quick photos, he was back in the stream.
My wife and I finished the day uneventfully. She fished the daddy long legs over a pod of several fish along a hard bend in the stream, presenting some excellent drifts and drawing several curious looks but no bites. We broke down our gear and hustled down the lane to meet the taxi that was our unfortunate exile from Eden, taking us back to the concrete jungle of London.
As I write this account, sipping rosé in a Parisian apartment a few days after the trip (no, you’re not wrong to think of Hemingway), I am affected with a sense of completeness. This fish was but one piece, albeit an important one, of an incredible experience at Bossington. I will share a full account of the overall trip in a subsequent post.