The Italian Job
Been watching the rugby and a brilliant Scottish performance which has handed the Italians the wooden spoon. Reminded me of this Donny Donovan story from a few years back.
The Italian job
A small part of my beat at Nursling on the Test is stocked and fished solely as a trout beat supposedly using dry fly only although some peoples interpretation of what’s floating and what’s not is often a little confused.
Some of the people that fish the trout beat are seasoned fly fishermen and some are beginners who have often moved from stillwater to river but a fair majority of them have never seen a fly rod before let alone attempt to cast with one. Corporate entertainment on the banks of the chalkstreams is a booming business and has lead to a whole new meaning to the phrase, “a steep learning curve” as far as fly fishing is concerned. Some of these new recruits to the fly fishing world are genuinely interested to have a go and perhaps learn something although I think it’s fair to say that many are just out on a mission to eat and drink as much as is possible not forgetting to shake hands with all the appropriate people.
The one big bonus for me is that many of the companies that book this fishing also book yours truly as a ghillie for the day which as well as being a good earner, sometimes allows me to join in being corporately entertained and I likewise get into the spirit by eating like a horse and partaking in the occasional tipple. Be rude not to really.
One day towards the end of September there were three Italian gentlemen booked in on the trout beat and following several emails and phone calls my services were requested for the day. It turned out that one of their wives had bid for the day at a charity auction and having no interest towards fishing herself, gave the day to her husband and a couple of his mates. Needless to say none of them had ever heard of fly-fishing but said that they were looking forward to a day on the river and would bring plenty of wine and a barbeque and enjoy themselves regardless of the fishing. I can usually tell what kind of a day I’m going to have after a few minutes of meeting the rods and it was immediately obvious that this was going to be a fun day with absolutely no pressure on catching lots of fish. I had a cigarette lighter in one pocket and a bottle opener in the other and knew that these were probably going to be the only essential tools of the day.
The three Italians rather suspiciously, and somewhat nervously, eyed up the fly rods that were leaning against the hut ready for action and gently wafted them around like a child playing with a sparkler. You could see that they had never used one before and when I told them that they should actually have hold of the cork bit and not the thin end they decided to open the first bottle of red and perhaps they would watch me for a while.
Well we did indeed have a splendid day and whilst we may not have troubled too many fish, they certainly knew that we were there and the water was still lightly frothed such were their efforts at mastering this dry fly fishing for brown trout lark. It was all good fun and they said it didn’t matter one iota that they hadn’t caught fish but as we were walking back towards the hut one did say it would have been nice to feel one pulling on the end of the line. I thought that these blokes did deserve to have a bit of excitement and searched through my fly box for that never fails nearly dry fly on the chalkstreams… the weighted nymph. I tied on one of our Nursling nymphs and roll cast it out into midstream slowly lifting it back to the surface with probably about thirty trout following closely behind. One of them took and I struck into it at the same time handing the rod to one of the startled Italians. He played the fish to raucous shouts of encouragement from his friends and whoops of laughter as the two-pound trout was netted, photographed from every conceivable angle then returned to the river. They were amazed at the size of this monster fish and couldn’t believe that there were such leviathan in the river and I remember thinking to myself that I can only hope that they never fish some parts of the chalkstreams where two-pound trout are used as live bait.
That small capture made a nice end to the day and we were all very pleased as we slowly walked back to the hut and perhaps another glass of something before saying goodbye. As we walked over the hatches alongside Nursling mill I noticed a large salmon sat in front of a rock in what is called the boat pool. I pointed out the fish to my Italian friends who after a minute or so of looking claimed to see it but I’m not sure that they could. I told them that the nymph we had just used to catch the “monster” trout was the same used to catch salmon although as this was the trout beat we didn’t usually fish here. Just for the sheer hell of it I roll cast the nymph over the hatches about ten feet upstream of the salmon that was lying in about six feet of water directly under our feet. As I lifted the nymph the salmon flicked its tail and came like a torpedo. I remembered the three-pound leader that was still on the eight foot six trout rod and pulled the nymph out of the water as the salmon’s tail folded through the surface film. The Italians nearly jumped onto my shoulders and stood staring at the water not quite believing what they had just seen. I cut the leader off and replaced it with fifteen pound and retied the nymph on. I went through the exact same procedure and again the salmon came for the nymph although this time I let him have it and lifted sharply into him. Then all hell broke loose with me running, the fish leaping and the Italians jumping up and down bumping into each other not quite knowing what to do. None of them would take the rod and leapt back in horror as I offered them it. The fish performed five or six magnificent jumps in the boat pool taking about twenty yards of line as it roared off upstream with the Italians and me in hot pursuit in what must have looked like a sketch from the Benny Hill show. It then turned and sped back downstream towards the hatches and although I held it for a few seconds it disappeared down the open hatch into the mill pool below. I stood on the hatches with three Italians; an eight foot six trout rod nearly bent double and a small reel screaming in protest as our magnificent silver tourist took it down to the backing. I was in two minds as to whether I should phone somebody for help….. perhaps the fire brigade for me and a couple of ambulances for the Italians.
I got one of the Italians to hold the rod and I lay face down on the hatches and reached through until I could just touch the handle. I told him to let go the rod and somehow passed it through the hatch although how it never snapped into a thousand pieces I shall never know. I then passed the rod under some steel barriers that ran across the hatches and walked out onto the end of a concrete parapet facing the mill pool with rushing water either side of me and started to wind in the slack line not entirely sure whether or not we still had the fish on. As it didn’t really matter, of course the fish was still on and as I tightened into him again he performed another enormous jump at the tail of the pool still some thirty yards below us. Every leap that the salmon made was greeted with a cheer and yet another photograph being taken.
Stood on the parapet meant that I was still about five feet above river level and I knew that I had to get across bramble bushes and the salmon pass before I could get down to the waters edge and perhaps have a chance to land the fish. Between us we managed to ferry the rod across the bushes and onto one of the Italians who had climbed about fifteen feet up an ash tree alongside the salmon pass who in turn gave it to another and finally back to me. Again I wound in the slack line and again the wonderful resistance from the other end told me that our friend was still on. By this time I was actually standing in a few feet of water in the mill pool and slowly began to play the fish towards me. Of course we only had a small trout net and all I could think to do was to tail the fish although I’d never tried it before. The fish actually came in quite smoothly and as it got to within ten feet of me a piece of blanket weed caught on the line and slid down to rest most conveniently across the fish’s eyes seemingly sending it to sleep and I think that the Italians thought that it was all part of my plan. As the fish came to my feet I slowly reached down and took a firm grip around the wrist of its tail, put the rod down and slid my other hand along to its mouth and very easily took the nymph out. I then lifted this magnificent fish out of the water – to gasps of complete wonderment – and walked quickly the twenty feet back to the boat pool where I laid down and put the fish back into the river. I don’t suppose it was out of the water for more than five or six seconds and it powered away after a few moments of me holding it upright.
As I stood up and wiped my hands down the front of my waistcoat, my three Italian friends all stood in line and gave me a lovely round of applause. I removed my hat, thanked them for their help and wonderful support and took an elaborated bow that even a beaming Pavarotti at the Royal Albert Hall would have been proud of.
Donny Donovan
Reg Wyatt
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