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Mayfly madness, mad pigs and madder misses on the River Wylye

Just a couple of weeks after having so perfectly popped my river fishing cherry on the Eden I'm already getting itchy feet and an even itchier casting arm. Soon I'm aching for that sustained high-note of excitement and imagining the sensation of reentering that pure state of flow that engulfs when in pursuit of plucky wild browns. This time I'm keen to taste the fruits of another river, and I've got a decent motive to support my indecent trout lust. My dad's 70th birthday is fast approaching in July, and I've already told him that I'm planning to take him on a chalk stream fishing weekend as a gift in mid-September. Naturally we need to carry out some reconnaissance of the river well in advance of September (in June no less) to get a feel for the place and familiarise ourselves with the buttery-bellied locals.

Echoing my Eden experience, this latest adventure would mark another series of firsts. It would to be the first time I'd fish a chalk stream, the first time I'd fish a river with my father since I was eight years-old, and maybe, just maybe the first time I'd experience that most renowned period in any trout fisherman's calendar… Mayfly madness.

Living in Kent most of the magnificent southern chalk streams of England are only a couple of hours out of reach. Sadly the vast majority are also a couple of hundred pounds out of my budget. But with countless pastoral images and chalk stream tales etched into my daydreams thanks to Oliver Kite, G.E.M Skues, Frank Sawyer, John Goddard, Brian Clarke and co., I'm compelled to discover an accessible and affordable option on a day ticket.

In a moment of serendipity our future destination breaks the surface and stakes a claim on my attention in early May. I'm indoors sat at my fly tying desk, watching the golden light set against the tall evergreens in the far corner of the garden. As dusk evaporates I shift my concentration back to tying an Olive CDC stackwing pattern when a neon pink Post-it note furtively catches the corner of my eye, poking its head out from within a copy of Trout & Salmon magazine. I pull it off the shelf and open it to rediscover a great article by Jon Beer about a previous Mayfly fishing experience he'd had on the River Wylye in Wiltshire (pronounced 'Wily' as in the coyote). I'd flagged the page precisely for such an occasion - £60 a day ticket, advance booking necessary. Not cheap by any means, but it's the old man's 70th and by chalk stream standards sixty quid is a welcome change from the three-figure fees I'd repeatedly encountered when researching elsewhere.

With that, I tell dad we're booked in and all set for 10th June. Countdown begins.

Sunday, June 9, 2013 - The night before

Eager to get an early start the following morning, we pootle west across to Wiltshire and touch down at our B&B in Warminster just as the sun begins to bow, soften and bathe gentle poppy-peppered fields in warm light. We're starving, but I easily convince dad that dinner can wait so we can recce the river that we'll be facing tomorrow.

My first glimpse of English chalk stream gem, the River Wylye

We pull up in a lay-by near a tiny bridge on a stretch of the Wylye that's little more than a rod-length wide. As I wander to the waterside I'm knocked sideways by how beautiful this ranunculus-ribboned chalk stream truly is, as I gaze upstream greeted by Mayfly Spinners lightly dancing above the clear water and scything the surface to lay eggs, with feisty small browns rising freely and frequently intercepting them. A moving postcard of fly fishing perfection and a vision of chalk stream life, even better than I'd imagined it. I attempt to briefly capture the atmosphere on my camera phone, although my footage does the moment little justice:

Early evening Mayfly on the River Wylye

I'm wishing I had my rod (and permission) to cast above the feasting fish, but seeing and studying the action before my eyes is reward enough. I'm so engrossed in the ballet of Mayflies pirouetting above the hypnotically gentle current that my growling belly and hunger pangs slide to the very bottom of the pecking order of sensations I'm experiencing. It doesn't get better than this, so if tomorrow produces even a fraction of the action I've witnessed this evening, well, that'd be something.

Monday, June 10, 2013 - Fishing the Wylye

I'm a little bleary eyed, having spent the night sleeping in a makeshift nest of towels and blankets on the bathroom tiles of our en-suite. I should've remembered that sharing a twin room with my dad (a.k.a. World Snoring Champion 1977-2013) would mean I'd need to evacuate my comfy bed for the sanctuary of another room. No amount pillow throwing or harrumphing could silence the beast, but who needs sleep when you're riding the high of anticipation of fishing your first chalk stream?! One full english breakfast later and I'm raring to get down to the waterside.

Entering the lower Eastleigh beat near Norton Bavant

We whip round to pick up our day tickets from Roz Walker at Eastleigh Farm, who has a few miles of fishing on the upper and lower Wylye. At this time of year it's dry fly, upstream only. As chalk stream virgins we ask for some advice and Roz kindly makes her recommendations on which stretches of water are more accessible, given there's no wading. We decide to try the lower Eastleigh beat in the morning, and she tells us to give her a call at lunch so she can guide us to the upper beat as getting there means negotiating a spaghetti of backroads. We're all set and it's only 7:30am. Half an hour later I'm stood on a bridge made of old railway sleepers straddling the lower Wylye, with my trusty 8ft 4wt 'Trout Bum' in hand and hope tingling in my gut.

There's plenty of cover as I creep upstream scouring the water and wild flowers for signs of fly life. There are a few Grannom clinging and fluttering awkwardly around the tall grasses, but there are none over the water and there's nothing showing at the surface for the first couple of hours as I fixate on likely lies, scanning the channels running between thick beds of ranunculus riding high in the water. A few regal damselflies rest nearby, and I'm amazed by their startling iridescence. Later, when I'm back home, I try to identify them - I think what they're female Banded Demoiselle (Calopteryx Splendens). But back in the moment there's no movement, despite perfect conditions - the air temperature is pleasant and not too warm, the water's cool and there's a very light breeze. Last night's Mayfly bonanza feels an age away, yet I'm still optimistic and enjoy every second and speculative cast as I try to tempt a take at the surface with a Deer Hair Emerger (DHE) in case the Grannom are a sign of what's on the menu. No joy. Then I try a Griffiths Gnat given there area few wee black beasties here and there. Again nothing stirs, but I've read that activity on rivers at this time of year typically only begins (if you're lucky) at around 11am, so I'm in no way hurried or restless. I'm too busy soaking it all up.

Being a novice I find the mixture of wonderfully overgrown bank-side vegetation and thick ranunculus a real challenge, and have to pick my casts wisely so as not to snag on every throw. I've lost a pair of dries in the first couple of hours, but luckily I've tied with a plentiful subs-bench to account for my inevitable losses. The tricky casting conditions force me to be extremely considered and concentrate hard, a state of mind I enjoy greatly. It's at these times that I notice my presentation and accuracy are forced to improve, incrementally, and I just hope that my muscle memory is taking note so I don't have to entirely reeducate my body on what to do next time when casting in such conditions.

CDC Haystack Emerger

I stay low and shuffle a little further up to a nice spot that looks promising - even more so because I've got a some rare space for a decent back cast. I sit hidden behind a clump of tall grass and stare into the channels below, attempting to look through the water for signs of the gentle rocking of a tail or some other clue, when the surface shatters with a bold rise. I'd spotted a single rogue Mayfly a few minutes ago on my approach, so decide to switch from the DHE and Griffiths Gnat tactics to try the only Mayfly pattern I have in my fly box - it was the only one I managed to teach myself to tie in time for our visit, and the only one I had most of the materials for. A stackwing CDC Haystack Emerger recommended by Paul Proctor in T&S, I try to tie it on patiently but the sight of a rising wild brown on this lovely chalk stream has got me pleasantly flustered and I'm all fingers and thumbs. I've tied half a dozen for our trip, so hopefully my nerves won't cause me to need that many.

I kneel up and watch to see if it rises again. Sure enough, it does and it's joined every minute or two by another hungry little mouth a few yards in front of it. I can't see what they're feeding on, but it's not Mayfly as I can't see any others coming off the water. Perhaps I should put on the Griffiths Gnat again, as it looks like they're on the small stuff? Nah, I'll give the CDC a bash, if nothing else to see what happens.

Accurate casting is needed to avoid snagging on the ranunculus

I work out a couple of rod-length's of line and drop a cast a few yards behind the trout at the rear to get my eye in. Time to go for it. I throw it a little further and it lands a yard ahead of my quarry. With a splash its little jaws come up and pluck at my fly, at which point I stupidly lift and tighten to find myself met with a slack line and a thumping heart-rate. I whisper colourful words to the sniggering water rats resting nearby. I try again a few times but I've clearly put the little toffee prince down. At least he liked the look of my Mayfly imitation. I decide to try his friend further up and on the far side who's rising regularly, but in a trickier spot. I can see I'm going to have a little issue with drag, so try to work out the puzzle of the currents and restrictions of the ranunculus to see what I can do. A few practise casts below him, and a few snags and drag-compensating adjustments later, and I think I might have it sussed. That is if I can keep my cool. I roll cast into another false cast, then jab my final throw forward, and what d'ya know, it lands broadly where it's meant to. Bang, he takes! I suck in one deep breath and wait for his jaws to vanish from view and imagine him closing his mouth beneath the surface, then I lift and experience that satisfying elastic resistance as my line straightens and my rod bows respectfully to the river in gratitude. He turns about face and hightails it downstream, but I manage to put on the brakes and quickly play him at the surface and into the net. My first ever chalk stream wild brown trout, and a handsome little soul. Amazing.

Say hello to my little friend

As I put him back and hold him in the water to regain his strength he moves to a small rock nearby and I marvel at how closely he hugs it, virtually vanishing from plain sight within a few feet of me. I'd never have seen him if I didn't know he was there.

I move up to another likely spot in lots of shade. There's nothing showing, but I cast my Mayfly deceiver over an interesting flow. Once, no. Twice, uh-uh. Thrice… yes, I'm in! They really do like the look of this pattern, even though there aren't any of the real articles to be seen. We tussle for a good ten seconds, then a little leap accompanied by a rattling head-shake and she's off. A brief encounter, but a feisty and enjoyable one nonetheless.

We're meeting Roz shortly, so I find dad and we make our way back to the car. He's yet to land one (this is very different from his fishing days on the Don before I was born), but he tells me he's having lots of fun, has received some interest and the day is still young. So we head into Warminster in good spirits to pick up some lunch. All this excitement has made me hungry, so I find a place that sells prawn baguettes the size of a fire extinguishers, while dad wrestles with a chicken focaccia as big as his head.

Upper Eastleigh beat on the River Wylye

Back at Eastleigh Farm Roz leads us through a labyrinth of small roads and through the back of the wardrobe into the intense green Narnia that is the upper beat. On arrival Roz points out an impressive resident grayling that performs a couple of swift shuttle-runs up and down the lovely gravel shallows soon after. It must weigh a good couple of pounds - they're known to get up to three pounds in these parts! This particular lady of the stream is very safe, because not only have I never had the pleasure or experience of catching a grayling, but this one is downstream at the bottom end of the beat (upstream only remember!), and even were I allowed to go for it I'd need to perform a herculean roll-cast to get my fly near her, and the steep overgrown bank would offer no way to land this leviathan. That said there must be a way, but she's one for a far better angler than my abilities can conjure.

It's another beautiful stretch of river, and even lusher than this morning's beat - it'll require a side-casting approach over the water from here on in, and done so very carefully if I'm to avoid being ensnared by my quintessential surroundings.

I work my way up and clumsily try casting in a few tight spots where I notice a fish or two rising, but their awkward lies make it impossible for me to reach them no matter how hard I try. I so wish wading were allowed here - delicate fairy-footed wading, of course - as it would offer so many more opportunities for casting to some difficult and interesting lies that to my mind are otherwise off limits to mere mortal fishermen.

Having rescued my fly from the shackles of a nearby overhanging tree I move on and turn a corner to find myself introduced to a bewitching bend in the stream that screams trout. It's mid-afternoon now and an occasional Mayfly begins to float into view, but only a fraction of the number we witnessed yesterday. Despite the slender pickings, the calm surface of the slow-flowing bend cracks with a small rippling crater as a trout gulps one down. A few minutes later and a pock mark briefly blemishes the liquid mirror as another rise breaks the surface a few yards away. Same fish? Could be, then two rise at the same time. And a third further ahead.

Here's where I experience unrequited love

I kneel and ready myself with my CDC Haystack Emerger still primed at the business end. I cast to the rearmost fish, and within a few chucks there's a quick splashy take. I pause until it's vanished from view, breathe and lift, but my line is slack. Missed! I leave it for five minutes or so, then try again. Another take from the same fish, but this time I prick it with the line tightening momentarily before pinging back towards me empty. The same thing happens a third time so I check my hook. It looks fine and feels incredibly sharp. Head-scratching time. What am I doing wrong? This little blighter ceases to feed, so I try his buddy up ahead. I manage to land my fly broadly in front of him, then splosh! Another take, but again I fail to hook him. I stop for a while, then try again. This time my fly is taken with a gentle head and tail rise, but hold on! This isn't a trout, it's charcoal dark and there's a tinge of red on the dorsal. It must be a grayling, and it looks like a good size! I don't think about this at the time, but on reflection, as I miss another take. This repeats one more time, then again with the third trout feeding in this lovely corner of the Wylye. Seven mildly maddening misses in a row! My confidence knocked, I try to console myself in the knowledge that the presentation and pattern were good enough to deceive, and think that maybe they missed my fly a couple of times too, and perhaps I didn't entirely mistime all my 'strikes'. Although, in hindsight I think it was my failing and not theirs. Dazzled by my ineptitude the trio stop feeding, clearly to compare notes about the buffoon up above in the cover of the weeds. So having been camped there for a couple of hours I decide to shift my efforts elsewhere with a view to perhaps returning for another pop later on.

Further up I'm quickly into another fish, and delight in the knowledge that I'm still able to hook a fish, but despite having my rod held high and retaining tension throughout, within a few seconds of the fight my pint-size opponent shakes the hook and is gone for good.

?

Beware the hogs of doom!

I fish my way up past a discreet sewage works and under an overpass towards the top end of the beat. As I trundle along admiring yet another marvellous coiled ribbon of water I hear an unusual snort, and out of nowhere three scarily large pigs start running towards me from the woodland behind. They're only stopped in their tracks by a pathetic knee-high fence made out of three pieces of string that look suspiciously like they might be electric. I'm not going to touch them to find out, and instead pick up pace to escape the menacing glare of these mad farmed hogs. I do quite fancy a bacon sandwich though.

Despite seeing and casting to a few rising fish, the charms of my CDC Mayfly appear to have worn off entirely with no enquiries for a couple of hours as the sun begins to kiss the horizon.

I walk back to where I last saw dad fishing and catch sight of him on the same bend I'd failed at earlier. As I approach he gives me the sign that he got one, and shows me the snap he took before popping him back right where I was camped. Even though it's a real little 'un, I'm delighted for him. And he's pretty chuffed too. So much so that he asks me to pop a picture into my article. So here's the tricksy culprit in all his glory.

Tiddler caught on the bend by my dad

I ask him what he caught it on. "Um, that thing you gave me", he replies referring the the exact same CDC Haystack Emerger I'd been using. I've since read that trout such as these - small ones that hurriedly snap at your dry fly - sometimes require you to lift into them without delay, which might partially account for my eight misses. I'm not sure to be honest, but as reconnoissance missions go I learned a whole bunch of stuff, and can't wait to get back for round two on the Wylye in mid-September when I'm sure I'll encounter, as ever, another heap of completely different challenges. I'll also get an opportunity to pitch a nymph which I'm really looking forward to, as that'll be permitted then.

I've only landed one wild brown, but I leave the Wylye with a great sense of satisfaction and serenity. The surroundings and conditions were perfect, there were triumphs, dramas and conundrums. Memories made and shared. It reminds me that I'm incredibly lucky that my father sparked an early love of fly fishing in me, even though the passion lay dormant for many years until the fire was re-ignited last year. And for this I'm dearly thankful. Whilst I adore the solitude and being lost in the moment and exploring the water solo, it's the companionship and reflection on shared experiences with family and friends that makes fly fishing such a special thing. I refuse to label it a sport, as it's much more than that to me. Fly fishing now feels a deep part of me, shapes my outlook on the world, and I believe it brings out something better in me, both when I'm at the waterside or anywhere else. I hope I can inspire my children to feel something similar to how I feel one day.

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