‘I am struck by the thought that I have spent many hours through school, college, and work, daydreaming of this exact scene, feeling as if I was missing out, gazing through the window as I sat at a desk, imagining the feel of the pin turning in my hand. And here I am, fishing on the banks of my heroes, stood in the famous waters of the Hampshire Avon.’
Last season ended with a whimper, sheltering from the rain, watching my rod top as my swan shot link ledger strained against the flood water pushing through the Stour. I think deep down I was glad the season had come to an end.
A few months later and the new season arrived with a heatwave in tow. Renewed optimism and sunshine, all was well. In truth, the glorious 16th was too hot, for a second year running, and I spent most of the day half asleep in a hedgerow, waiting for the coolness of evening to allow some actual fishing. Again, I link ledgered a bait, though the Stour was much more accommodating of this tactic this time around, nothing came, and I woke on the second day of the new season with no real plan.
The Glorious 17th
Later that day, I found myself again retracing steps from the end of last season, revisiting one of the mill streams on the Avon, a venue I have not seen since March, when its bankside vegetation had died off, the water was coloured, the streamer weed was nowhere to be seen, and the wedding venue that sits below the bridge was quiet. Now, on a bright and warm June day, the opposite is true.
Though a path has been cut through the meadows, the grasses, wildflowers, and weeds that line the banks are high, with just a few gaps trodden down to accommodate an angler. The river runs low and clear, sparkling as it passes over the bounds of the bright green streamers in the sunlight. An array of fish sit under the bridge in the clear water, and from my vantage point above it its easy to get lost in a world of fish watching; the darting shoals of small dace, the two broad shouldered wily old chub drifting in and out of the current, and the large eel burying itself within the weeds.
Downstream of the bridge, the wedding venue that was oh-so-quiet in March has sprung into life, the beginning of the fishing season also marking the start of the wedding season, and from the bridge I can hear the hum of excited conversation between wedding parties, photographers light testing, staff preparing arrival drinks. The real party will begin soon, and so I must head upstream.
Not a five-minute stroll along the river I find the swim, where it is possible to climb down the bank and into the shallows of the Avon’s water, too hot for waders, the water is shallow enough to stand ankle deep in boots. I am travelling light, just a small bucket for bait and essentials, a float rod and centrepin trotting set up in one hand, a net in the other. I need nothing else today.
Leaving the bucket and net on the gravel bank, I stand alone in the river and begin laying my line across the water in front of me towards the far bank, where the river deepens and a clear run skirts around an overhanging tree.
Quickly, I fall into routine, stripping line from my pin, dropping the float to the edge of the glide across from where I stand, letting the red tip of the float work its way through the swim, and repeat, breaking the pattern only to change baits and wipe the sweat from my brow.
The occasional breeze finds its way down the Avon Valley and as the meadows behind me bow in the wind, it offers some momentary relief from the heat. I know all too well that the bright sunlight and intense heat is not optimum fish-catching conditions, but as I watch the float glide I am all too aware that a fish finding my bait in this moment is nothing but a bonus, and how lucky I am to be here, fishing this place in this way.
I am struck by the thought that I have spent many hours through school, college, and work, daydreaming of this exact scene, feeling as if I was missing out, gazing through the window as I sat at a desk, imagining the feel of the pin turning in my hand. And here I am, fishing on the banks of my heroes, stood in the famous waters of the Hampshire Avon.
I can hear the occasional cheer of the weddings beginning, the bride and groom arrive to an announcement over the PA system, and the music starts to play out over the lawn as they celebrate the happiest day of their life on the banks of the river. Upstream, I too am on the banks of the same river, and in the moment, I think maybe it’s the happiest day of my life, too.
In the end, the swim didn’t produce the fish I thought it might, but this didn’t matter. This small run of Avon water had given me something much more important than a fish. It had offered me a reminder of the joy of it all, a reset, and a fresh perspective. I move off downstream, a renewed sense of optimism and appreciation in tow, and try my luck in the next swim along.
Writing & Images – Rafe Gabriel, Summer 2022
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