Warwickshire Trout - River Alne Pt.15

It was, I must report with all due ceremony, one of those days that begins with suspicion and ends with smugness. The sort of day that makes you glance skyward and mutter, “You’re up to something,” only to be proven entirely correct within minutes. For only the day before had been, in the finest British vernacular, absolutely pants. Not mildly disappointing. Not a touch inconvenient. No—full-on, elastic-gone, dignity-lost pants. And yet here we were, basking in a meteorological mood swing so violent it could have been narrated by a soap opera voiceover artist.

Sunshine one minute, hailstones the size of ambitious peas the next. A gentle breeze transforming, without so much as a polite warning, into something that would have had small dogs reconsidering their life choices. It was the kind of weather that makes you carry both sunglasses and emotional baggage. Naturally, I took this as a sign that things were aligning beautifully for a spot of fishing. As any seasoned angler knows, terrible logic is the backbone of great optimism.

Before any rods were flourished or heroics attempted, there were errands. Real-life errands. The sort that chip away at your soul while convincing you that you are, in fact, a productive member of society. Chief among them: cleaning my house-proud mum’s oven door. Yes. The oven door. Not the oven. Not the kitchen. The door. A singular pane of greasy defiance that had apparently become the Everest of domestic expectations. I emerged victorious, though spiritually diminished, with the faint scent of industrial cleaner lingering about me like a badge of questionable honour. 

Next, the laptop my faithful, wheezing companion—was delivered into the capable hands of workplace IT, who assured me they would “just run a few updates,” which is corporate code for “we will return this to you unrecognisable and slightly resentful.” and we still don't know when you will be back working. 

Still, with these civic duties completed, I found myself staring down the barrel of something rare and magical: an afternoon entirely my own.

Naturally, I chose to spend it standing in cold water, waving bits of plastic at fish that had absolutely no interest in me.

The destination: the River Alne. A stretch I have persistently fished with all the success of a man trying to win the lottery using vibes. 

I do not know why I return. Perhaps nostalgia. Perhaps stubbornness. Perhaps a deep-seated belief that today will be the day everything changes, despite overwhelming historical evidence to the contrary. Downstream, I once belonged to a delightful little syndicate where trout of respectable size, along with obliging dace and chub, would occasionally grace me with their presence. Up here? Well. Character-building, let’s call it.

The water, I must say, was glorious. Gin clear. The sort of clarity that turns fishing into theatre. You can see everything—the shadows, the flickers, the sudden, heart-stopping lunges when a trout appears from nowhere like an aquatic assassin. It’s addictive, this kind of fishing. Utterly addictive. Like gambling, but with more waterproof trousers.

Then I opened the car door.

Good grief.

The smell. The smell was not merely unpleasant it was an experience. A full-bodied, nose-wrinkling, soul-questioning odour that announced itself with the confidence of a man who knows he has overstayed his welcome. Upstream, a Severn Trent poo processing plant sat quietly, doing whatever it is such places do, which I can only assume involves brewing something unspeakable. Two workers in orange stood in a nearby field, casually existing amidst the olfactory apocalypse. I briefly considered applauding their resilience before deciding I valued my lungs too much.

Undeterred (or perhaps simply not very bright), I pressed on downstream, convincing myself that fresher air and eager fish awaited. The spot looked promising. It always does, doesn’t it? That’s half the problem. Every pool whispers sweet nothings: “Cast here,” it says. “This is the one.” And like a fool in waders, I listen every time.

Two hours followed.

Two long, hopeful, increasingly questionable hours of casting, retrieving, adjusting, and repeating. Not a follow. Not a swirl. Not so much as a mildly interested glance from anything with fins. The river might as well have been a decorative feature in a garden centre. The only life encountered came in the form of the occasional minnow, which appeared less impressed and more confused, as though I had interrupted an important meeting.

There’s a particular kind of silence that settles in during such sessions. Not peaceful silence. 

No. This is the silence of quiet judgement. The river, the trees, the distant sheep they all seem to be watching, collectively agreeing that perhaps this isn’t your day. Or your river. Or, if we’re being honest, your sport.

And yet…

And yet, standing there in the sunlight—because of course the weather had decided to behave itself by then—I couldn’t help but feel rather pleased. 

No fish, no glory, no tales of heroism to bore people with later. Just fresh air, ridiculous conditions, and a gentle reminder that sometimes the point of it all isn’t the catching. 

It’s the being there. The casting. The quiet. The absurd hope that keeps you coming back.

Also, and crucially, the fact that I did not spend the afternoon cleaning anything else.

So yes, a blank. A glorious, aromatic, wind-battered blank. But a fine day nonetheless. And as I trudged back to the car, faintly scented by Eau de Treatment Plant and existential reflection, I knew one thing for certain:

I’ll be back.

Because clearly, I haven’t learned a thing. Still the pint was nice before fishing part 2....

Mill Cottage Eardiston - Teme, Thrips and Time Warps

There are decisions in life that one looks back upon with misty-eyed fondness, and there are decisions that cause the Wife to raise an eyebrow so sharply it threatens to detach from her face. 

Booking Mill Cottage on the River Teme, without engaging the underused decision-making portion of my brain, fell firmly into the latter category. In my defence, it was cheap “very cheap” ( a weekly shop in the Newey Household) and in the heat of a mid-week whim, that became the sole criterion for success.

Only later, once the confirmation email had already nestled smugly in my inbox, did the Wife remind me:

(a) “You’ve stayed there before, you plank, (was March 2010 apparently)

(b) “I vowed never to go again,” and

(c) “You’ve booked Utah bleeding Saints in Birmingham on Saturday with Steveo, remember, did you even catch any fish last time ?”

Ah yes. That, sh*t. The weekend, thus, was shaping up to be more convoluted than an eel knot on a cold morning.

Mill Cottage & Ben back in 2010

The cottage itself is a curious relic. A time capsule. A portal to a period when brown wallpaper was fashionable, electricity was optional, and furniture was apparently designed by someone who had only ever seen chairs described in writing. 

The décor appears not to have been updated since the late 1950s (I jest) possibly even since the Domesday Book, in which the mill was first mentioned. The monks of St Mary’s in Worcester might well have written, “Mol De Medewye bring your own firewood and expect a few spiders.”

The history is genuinely impressive. Medieval monks, meadows, a seventeen-foot waterwheel, and the Moore family milling away for generations. 

But standing in the living room, staring at a TV the size of a large lunchbox with no HDMI port, I found myself pondering a modern mystery:

Why, in the name of Saint Barbel, have the owners not spent thirty quid on a tin of paint? , a couple of hundred on a decent TV, and update the furniture. 

A few upgrades and they could charge double. Triple, even. As it stands, the place feels like the sort of summerhouse a 50's eccentric might have used for smoking a pipe, writing letters to The Times, and accidentally inventing tetanus.

But there we were. Me and Sam. The boy was off on a teacher training day his, not mine and he was positively buzzing about fishing from the cottage’s garden and having a curry. A proper stretch of Teme too, the sort of water that looks gorgeous even when you know full well you’re going to blank harder than Rachel from Accounts who forgot her calculator. (AGAIN)

Complicating matters, Thursday night I had to sprint straight from work to a Fatboy Slim gig in Coventry because obviously the best preparation for a weekend of fishing is an evening of shouting, sweating, and pretending I’m not too old for this sort of thing. 

Which left me roughly four and a half minutes to prepare the tackle. I flung together a selection of rods, reels, floats, feeders, baits, and things that appeared to be fishing-related but might actually have been household items.

The plan, such as it was:

Arrive Friday at 2.00pm. Fish. Curry and a pint in Tenbury Wells for dinner (still a little run down, bless it). Fish much of Saturday. Dash home. Utah Saints. Collapse.

Phew.

Now tucked into the north-west corner of Worcestershire a spot so politely unassuming that even the sat-nav clears its throat before announcing it lies Tenbury Wells only a short drive away from the Mill Cottage. It’s the quiet achiever of market towns, the sort that doesn’t bother puffing out its chest because it knows full well you’ll fall for it eventually… like a trout mesmerised by a suspiciously shiny spinner.

Once a Victorian spa resort (because in those days everyone thought standing in sulphurous water would cure literally anything), Tenbury now lounges elegantly by the River Teme, framed by hop fields, cider-apple orchards, and countryside so wide-skied you could pitch a blimp in it and no one would bat an eyelid. Except maybe Dave, the bloke who watches everything from his front step and has opinions about cloud shapes. 

The Georgian high street is all indie shops and artisan markets, the sort that make you accidentally buy chutney you absolutely do not need. A 1937 regal Cinema, a glorious art deco number that shows arthouse films, jazz nights, and occasionally a movie so obscure I’m not entirely convinced it isn’t just a screensaver. 

Then there are the Pump Rooms, a slice of Victorian eccentricity that looks like the sort of building you’d expect a time-travelling vicar to emerge from, clutching a pamphlet on the spiritual dangers of trousers. Food-wise, you’re sorted: cracking coffee, cakes large enough to be classified as architecture, curry houses, pubs, jobs a good'un. oh and even a Michelin-style restaurant lurking nearby, poised to surprise you with foam. There is always foam !!. 

Tenbury blends affordability, friendliness and proper countryside charm, with scenery so postcard-pretty you half expect a sheep to wander through holding a tiny enamel teapot. Just make sure you do your flood-homework this is a river town, after all, and the Teme occasionally likes to remind everyone who’s boss....

...you see one big problem !! most people in the Tenbury Wells cannot afford insurance the premiums are too high because flooding is so frequent (7 times in 2 years in recent apparently). Businesses and homeowners have adapted accordingly, placing electrical sockets high up, not storing things on the floor and making makeshift flood defences of their own.

The river hadn't flooded the town thankfully during Storm Claudia however temperatures had plummeted faster than the country's confidence in the Labour Party, and frankly expectations were low. Very low. “Bottom-of-the-Teme-in-winter” low. But it wasn’t really about the fish. It was about some proper father-son bonding time, a chance to unwind, and an opportunity for me to once again question every logistical choice I’ve made in adulthood.

And, if the Teme fancied being generous, maybe just maybe a fish or two would find its way into the landing net rather than laughing at us from the murky depths. 

Stranger Things (new series out very soon) have happened. After all, I’d managed to book a medieval mill, a Norman-era historical site, and see two dance-music legends in the space of forty-eight hours.

If that isn’t proof that miracles occur, I don’t know what is.

Now It was one of those mornings where even the river looked like it wanted to stay in bed, still sulking after the recent flood and charging through the valley like it had somewhere better to be. 

Sam and I had barely said our hellos to the owners before we were poking around the swims outside the mill cottage, pretending to be seasoned explorers rather than two blokes who were really wondering where the least treacherous place to fall in might be. 

The BAA stretch looked promising until we realised that accessing most of the pegs would require the agility of a mountain goat and the insurance policy of a stuntman; the banks were so slippery that one wrong step would’ve had me auditioning for a You’ve Been Framed compilation. 

So, with dignity intact well, mostly we retreated to the mill cottage like the sensible anglers we occasionally pretend to be. 

We gave the slack by the weir a good go into dusk, but the fish were having none of it, probably laughing at us from somewhere deep in the turbo-charged current, so it was off to the pub for morale repair and then a curry for medicinal purposes. 

The frost, meanwhile, clung to the ground like an over-keen limpet, the big hill downstream blocking out what little sun there was, and the water sat at a balmy 5.5 degrees, which is apparently ideal if you’re a penguin. 

Morning came, brutally, and with it the maggot feeder approach tiny hooks, dainty tactics and me squinting at red maggots like a jeweller evaluating gemstones, while Sam tried his best to appear enthusiastic despite the weather reminding him why he prefers fishing in conditions that don’t resemble a survival documentary. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for a grayling to slip up, confirming that something out there was still alive, and between showers, shivers, and the sort of toe-curling wind that makes you question your hobbies, we scraped together eight or nine more grayling and a couple of trout from the weir pool slack that clearly mistook the lobworm for an all-you-can-eat buffet sign.

By 3:30pm we were trudging back to the car, damp, cold, smelling faintly of maggots, but victorious in the sense that we hadn’t blanked, and I shot off home so I could go see Utah Saints DJ’ing, because apparently I am, against all common sense, still pretending I’m 25. After all that, I need a rest—but knowing me, I’ll be back on another river next week, complaining just as loudly and loving every second of it.

Warwickshire Trout - River Alne Pt.12

The draw to the cut is wavering I must admit, to be honest fishing the canals and rivers cannot be talked about in the same sentence for me. Canals are 'means to an end', yes I said it, but you have to look at the positives Mick, 

"Well what are they ?" 🤔

Well for one those steps can be ticked off which when you are often stuck behind a computer like I am and despite what some other anglers say, there are some nice fish to be caught on the canals. Ok it's not your sanctuary anymore, as you're sharing it with dog walkers, poo bag flingers, kamikaze cyclists, tiller twiddlers and dawdlers, but there are some more out of reach places, where the misanthrope can get his fix. 

I wasn't quite ready to go and tackle the silver fish turd tanglers in the canal just yet however as I'd leave those till early mornings but with a 'We Love Ibiza Weekender' starting tomorrow where 12 of us would we raving it up for a mates Stag Do, I needed that fishing fix otherwise I'd not get out till next week now.

So a quick but tasty meal of Phat Kaphrao, which is Soooooo easy to make and probably one of my favorite Thai dishes the gear was in the car and I was off to go and bother some trout on the Alne with the Salmo Hornet, it was a lovely day nearing 19 degrees but I only had two hours max, which to be honest is about all I'd fish for anyway.

A little early in the season I suppose with the close season for brown trout and rainbow trout in rivers, and for brown trout in unenclosed stillwaters, under the Midlands byelaws is 8 October to 17 March. But a couple of days in to the season it was worth a try I suppose, because be nice to see of the herons, cormorants and otters I've seen on this stretch in the coarse season hadn't eaten them all. !! 

The river was low and clear but perfect for fishing for trout as I could see the lure under the polarised sunglasses and it can be exciting fishing when the trout are on it. Swiping snatches and they literally come out of nowhere.

After trying a couple of the deeper swims where the bigger fish often reside without a take, I headed down to the weir where the recently fallen in tree seemed to have moved a bit. So much so it meant my usual vantage point was no longer fishable. I could just about sneak in to a position in the middle of the weir where a handful of tricky casts brought naff all. 

Usually the smaller trout live there but none today and on this stretch it's the banker swim really. Anyway there is plenty to go at here so I headed up the stretch to fish those likely holding swims. 

Cast after cast in rather lovely sunshine those trout were just not showing at all. I fished just shy of a couple of hours and in that time I would usually catch one or two fish, or on a good day 5 or 6. I lost my fishing reading glasses at one point and after retracing my steps to no avail, I called it a day. I'll leave it a month I think like I usually do as it's not that productive early season looking back at my blog.

Still a really nice spring day to be out and ok I didn't catch any fish this really is a place to seek the time in solitude that I need in ever increasing numbers, a slice if heaven so to speak. 

Small Brook Fishing Pt.25 - Milk Bottle Tops and Microminiaturization

Its been a while since I've visited the little stream to do some fishing but with the local rivers banging through again I was hoping there would be some rebite here. I've caught all manner of fish from this diminutive waterway and it was the dace in particular that really surprised me because there are some really nice chunky ones to be had.

Tis the season to be jolly mind you and like the dace from this dirty stream there is also no hiding from my winter belly, lots of socialising of late and plenty still to come . To be honest it's the same as this year on year where the 1st of January brings abstinence and clean living to one's life order, where the willpower is certainly tested. 

.....Mussssssssssttttttttttttttttt Resist !!!!

Anyway a bizarre dream the other day post some lovely French Bleu d'Auvergne, a very lucid one this.... anyway an enterprising tackle dealer with a shop near the local lunatic asylum chatted up the psychiatrist in charge one day. 

'Look,' he said. 'Why don't you encourage your patients to take up fishing? It's very soothing, very therapeutic. Make the world of difference to their well being. You've got a big lake in the grounds, anyway, and I'll be happy to sell them all the tackle they want."

'Good idea,' said the psychiatrist. 'Just one thing, though. We can't trust the poor lads with money. They don't know the value of it. So if they offer to pay in milk tops, just accept them and I'll settle up with you at the end of the month.'

'You're on,' said the tackle dealer.

Every weekday for a month the shop was packed with patients from the asylum. They bought so much tackle and bait that the dealer was constantly phoning the wholesalers to order fresh supplies.

At the end of the month, in came the psychiatrist. 'How did you get on with my lads?' he asked.

'Marvellous,' said the dealer. 'No trouble at all. They bought no end of stuff and paid for it all, just as you said, in milk bottle tops.'

'Great,' said the psychiatrist. 'Well, I'd better settle up with you now. What's the damage?'

'Five thousand seven hundred and forty three pounds 11ap, including VAT,' said the dealer.

'Seems reasonable to me,' said the psychiatrist. "Can you give me change for this manhole cover?'

Anyway to the fishing, well I had a pint of maggots and a float rod and that was it. The stream was well up however despite that, there are small areas of the stream that I could fish. From small slacks to back eddies. It didn't take long to catch the first fish either, literally the first chuck of the float it shot straight under a fish was on.

The first fish was a brook brownie and a rather skinny looking fish and a fish that looked a bit sorry for itself. The next fish, well that turned out to be a decent roach, however stupidly and very cavalier of me I decided to swing it in because I hadn't extended the landing net handle. 

Well you can guess what happened, yeap it and the hook parted and gave me the two fins as it dropped back into the drink. 

....Oh FFS !!!

Lesson learnt and all that I got about fishing again...

Plenty of bites from roach, dace and also a hybrid ? but once the bites dried up and a I tried another couple of swims, I decided to knock it on the head when the rain started in anger.

So around an hour and a bits fishing, was actually pretty prolific really considering the colour of the water. Nothing big mind you apart from that roach that dropped off but all in all I satisfying box ticking exercise where I needed to get out drowning maggots because this seasonal affective disorder has kicked in bit time and I need to seize every opportunity I can.

I will hopefully get out the weekend though and next week it's Xmas but I will be working till the death sadly because I've burned up all my holidays up this year. I'm just hoping the river will be in better fettle than they have been recently. 

The Tiny River Alne - Mongrels and Monopsychisms

Great white sharks are one of the most feared animals across the globe and according to the marine experts at Ocearch they could end up in UK waters in the near future. 

You see their investigations based on tracking showed that the creatures have started to regularly swim north as they search for food, being spotted at the United States’s New England coast more and more in recent years. 

Before the 1970s, Cape Cod, a peninsula in Massachusetts, had virtually no great white sharks, but the area is among those that have seen a rise in the number of great whites near its shores in the past 50 years. Experts believe that this is due to the number of seals that have migrated towards these regions.

 

The US Government’s efforts to protect the seals have ended up helping the species thrive and seals are one of the key sources of food the great whites depend on.

The Ocearch team are hoping to visit the UK next summer and expect to locate some of the vicious predators in British waters. 

Talking to The Times, the research group’s founder Chris Fischer said: “We believe they should be moving up past Brest [in Brittany, France] and Cornwall”.

Marine biologist Gregory Skomal disagrees with Ocearch’s theory, sharing that there have been zero white shark spottings around Cornwall. He’s explained: “They should be there but they are not and we don’t know why.” However, according to the University of Plymouth’s records, great whites have been spotted around the UK since 1965, with nearly 100 credible but unconfirmed sightings being noted in the last decade.

Great white sharks are most commonly found around the coastline of California, Hawaii, and the Gulf of Mexico, as well as in Australia and South Africa. They are predators that are known for swimming great distances to get to food and are said to be able to smell a drop of blood in one million drops of water.

Previously, scientists have warned that climate change, which contributes to rising ocean temperatures, would force the species to migrate and end up off the UK coastline by 2050.

So the huge quantities of seals in British waters better watch their backs !!! 

Recently, in April, a rare smalltooth tiger shark was discovered at a beach in Wexford, Ireland following the first shark corpse find in Hampshire in March. Experts believe the species, previously rarely seen in British waters, are making UK shores their full-time home.

Anyway I'm going to start at the bottom with my own research as gudgeon were the target  on the river Alne for this ((you've got two hours !! (The Wife)) short session with a float rod and maggots. One swim in-particular seems to hold them in numbers as I managed something like 40 odd last time here and I reckon I could have caught even more before the curfew bell sounded.  

Anyway the gudgeon were there straight away and I was building up a decent number of them fishing two maggots on a size 20 hook, but then a trout turned up and spoilt the action, because after that no bites from the gudgeon, in-fact no more bites in that swim whatsoever so I went on the rove to try and get some bites.

The next swim it was minnow, minnow, minnow, what the heck is that ? 

Obviously a hybrid of some sort DaceXBream (George Burton)

I thought it looked silver breamy from first glance, anyway the minnows were getting a pest so I changed swims again where I had 2 more small brownies this time where the water was carrying some pace.

The sun was beating down by this time and bites were not exactly frequent, so when the minnows turned up again it was time to call the session early. Shame the gudgeon didn't show after that trout because I was enjoying it, either that or I had caught all of them out of the swim. I'm not feeling 100% at the minute so I'm no desperate to get out, but we will see what tomorrow brings. 

Warwickshire Trout - River Alne Pt.14

Now brook or (small river fishing for that matter, such as the Alne) has most of the problems associated with larger waters and a few which are peculiar to itself. It is important to understand them at the beginning and know how to deal with them. The small size of brooks automatically increases the likelihood of frightening fish before a line has been cast and it is vital to remember the following points all the time if you want to be a successful brook fisherman.

....keep out of sight

This is the most important thing to remember. On a large river the size of the water absorbs quite a bit of the effect of careless movement. The fish in the immediate vicinity vanish but a few steps or a longer cast brings one into contact with fish again. Just try walking ordinarily and quite quietly up to a pool in a brook and see what happens. 

The reaction is instantaneous and panic-stricken trout dart in all directions. Being small, the whole width of the brook is affected and very likely the pool above as well. Frightened fish do not get caught and the brook fisherman really has to get down to it, being prepared to crawl if necessary, to get into a casting position. After a little practice it is possible to get quite close to a fish without disturbing it. Each time you manage this, study the fish carefully and you will notice something else. 

While you are quiet all is well but the moment it senses your presence you will notice a nervous quickening movement, especially of the tail, a sure sign that the fish is on its guard. That fish will certainly be more difficult to catch and to make things as easy for ourselves as we can we must take every care to avoid warning our quarry of our approach.

Another aspect of keeping out of sight is ensuring that your shadow is kept off the water. It is very easy to be well back from the brook and yet still cast a fatal shadow on to the water right where you are hoping to catch fish. Try and position yourself so that the sun throws the shadow on to the bank behind you and not on the water. If you have permission to do so it is best to cross the brook and fish from the other bank whenever this problem arises.

....move quietly

The way you move along the bank has a great deal to do with your fishing success. Whenever you are anywhere near the water you should ooze" along. Apart from not making a lot of noise, movement should be smooth and made for a definite purpose. Try and decide how you intend to fish each place before you get right on top of it, then make for the best casting place with as little fuss as possible.

Closely allied to the business of keeping out of sight and moving quietly is the question of wading. In my opinion brooks should only be waded when there is a definite advantage to be gained. It must be remembered that the amount of water and relative distances are so small that the effect of every disturbance is very greatly magnified and what would be a harmless action on a river will throw brook trout into a panic.

There are occasions when wading can make the difference between being comfortably able to fish a place and not being able to fish it at all. An example would be a deep cutting with the brook running along the bottom and overhung with thick bushes and trees. Such a place could only be fished by getting into the water and wading slowly and quietly along the edge, fishing as you go. Another place where it might pay to wade would be where the banks are very high.

The lower one can get, the less likely one is to be seen by the fish. I have been able, by moving carefully and quietly, to get right opposite trout and catch them at rod length with only a foot or so of cast hanging from the rod top. 

To achieve this it was necessary to double right up and crouch as the final yard or two was covered. cast, or rather pushing forward of the rod, was done from a hunched kneeling position. 

There is nothing outstanding about this, every experienced brook fisherman will have done it, but it does show what should be aimed at and what can be achieved, even with the shyest of trout.

Keeping out of sight and moving quietly are the two vital requirements for successful brook fishing and it will save hours of wasted time and much disappointment if these requirements are fulfilled from the start. Remember them and you will catch fish, however bad your casting may be at the beginning . Common-sense facts I suppose, because common sense is often the thing you have to learn by bitter experience.

So I know for a fact, trout are some of the easiest fish to catch, you only have to venture on the Lower Itchen for that, you'll bag up on every known method to man, oh and the obscure too. 😀. To be fair I jest but do keep quiet when fishing these small waterways.

Anyway I went for a couple of hours down at a stretch of the Alne I rarely fish. Mainly because it sees more foot traffic and I hardly see anyone else on the stretch I fish. Apart from one other angler who had donned the waders in the shallow water there was just the two of us, both fishing 'It's not cricket tactics'

Yes small lures, he'd already fished the upper section for a handful of small trout and despite fishing it plenty of times, he had not caught anything big. I showed him the ones I'd caught over the years I have been fishing the Alne and he was quite amazed. To be fair for a small waterway I've had some nice fish where 2lb is a good'un.

I've hooked and lost bigger fish and they tend to be lurking in the deeper and more sluggish water I've found. Anyway we bid our farewells and went in different directions where I managed a few trout and one tiny one dropped off.

The shallow diving 3.5cm floating Salmo rattlin hornet was getting caught up from time to time because the river is very shallow at the moment.  There was sporadic mayfly activity throughout the 2 hour session and plenty of rising fish.

I'm sure a dry fly would have been by far the better presentation but it didn't stop me catching fish. Maybe the Tenkara setup I have would have outfished it but you know what, I like chucking a lure especially when you get a proper 'whack' felt through the braid when a wriggly trout hooks itself.