9th June
After the pell mell excitement of mayfly hatches on the Kentchurch beats it was nice to wander off higher up the valley tonight. I fancied something a little rougher so took myself off to Pandy where the Monnow is joined by the little river Honddu.

Driving to the river is always a time for thought, sometimes reflective, sometimes introspective, often inane and trivial, but rarely profound. It is also a time for music. But which to choose? This evenings choice is an eclectic one: Mozart’s Requiem, is perhaps not the best precursor to a light hearted dabble on the brook, “Wish You Were Here”, Pink Floyd? Hmmm, the sentiment is there but the mood perhaps a little too ponderous. Music and mood, rhythm and thought, as inextricably linked as the trout and the stream, and tonight, my own thoughts flow with a nostalgic tone. I gaze across the sheep dotted meadows that line the Kempley lanes and reflect that there was a time, not so long ago, when Friday night was gateway to my own weekend flock-ritual. A poorly presented procession of preening, collective browsing, and formation dancing; all endured in the pointless pursuit of pleasure. My finger hovers over the CD changer, tonight’s selection is obvious, one the brothers Gibb’s more energetic offerings: “Night Fever!”

Listen to the ground:
There is movement all around.
There is something goin down
And I can feel it.

On the waves of the air,
There is dancin out there.
If its somethin we can share,
We can steal it.

Standing on the old stone bridge gazing down at the confluence pool, the song is still playing on in my mind, and on those waves of air shifting through the trees and across the rhythms of the river, there is indeed “dancing out there”…hordes of sedges and, as prophesied by Rob, a cracking hatch of BWOs, but still stars of the show, bobbing, weaving and spiralling are the Tony Manero’s of tonights show; Mayfly! And hundreds of them at that!

And surely no dance show ever had a greater setting. The valley here really is beautiful; the skyline dominated to the south by Skirrid, looking for all the world like the Monmouthshire Matterhorn, and to the west by the rampart like scarp which marks the start of the Black Mountains. All gilded in green and gold by natures own light show. However, gawping over, it was time to fish. Despite the Ugly Bug Ball being in full flow, there was little “up top” early evening so a bit of prospecting with a Deer Hair Caddis and GRHE was in order. I started in the pool 100yds below the Honddu confluence and was quickly into a big grayling. A couple of small trout followed over the next hour or so and I contrived to prick two more fish. So, sedately satisfying sport but not the spectacular stuff of lower down the valley. Things started to look up when a change of tactics bought a beautifully marked 1lb brownie from the confluence riffle.

Just as I released the fish, a slight rustle in the bushes behind me nearly caused a sphincter twitching moment. The grounds around here are used for SAS “scenario” training. Their orders flashed in front of me: “There’s a downright dangerously deluded guy abroad who thinks he is a fisherman. He needs to be apprehended and disarmed without compromise” I needn’t have worried though - Philippa - for that is her name - emerged from the undergrowth and introduced herself, somewhat breathlessly - she had just caught “a beauty” on the mayfly from the Honddu. We exchanged pleasantries but mostly I listened, she lived locally and clearly knew the water very well. Urging me to stay till it was dark she disappeared back into the undergrowth.

I decided to wander up the Honddu myself and see what was happening. Lots of Mays around but still no fish on top. The stretch of the Honddu is basically just a series of riffles and pools, scouring deeply under gnarled roots and tree stumps. They look perfect hidey holes for big fish but winkling them out is not straight forward. After a couple of blanks at the first two pools, I try a different tack - not really sure what tactic this is - basically it consists of looking at the water and saying “there’s just got to be a big boy down there somewhere”, then trying as best I can to get a nice heavy nymph to jog through the lie in an appealing way. Its all short-line-just-below-the-rod-tip-stuff. I remember Teifi Terrorist demonstrating preternatural skill levels at presenting the nymph and detecting takes out of thin air - “See that Dave?” he’d grin and exclaim in a way that made you feel you should have seen an aggressive, unmissable yank when in reality you didn’t see a thing, the line twitched perhaps…. with all the violence of a midge fart. But TT type sensitivity is not called for this evening as the occupant of this lie turns out to be an aggressive yanker - just my type of fish - even I can’t miss this one. He tears off downstream and leaps clear three times - “yes ok! I saw you first time - now just come to hand like a good un” He doesn’t want to come to hand though, he is large and full of fight but eventually I slip the net under him. Weighing in at exactly 1lb 8oz - a lovely, lovely fish. This high up the river there aren’t many fish that size are there? …aren’t there…

Progressing around the next bend I am confronted by what I’ve been hoping for all evening - a pool with rising fish - good ones too!! Off comes the nymph and on goes…. an Oliver Edwards - Last of The Mohicans - type mayfly. I feel strange tying this on after using Jean Williams’s numbers but I’ve heard good things so hear goes…. and sure enough, a big swirl, and I tighten into another good fish. I’ll spare you the details, well most of them - the fish is not quite as large as the last one but still a really beefy specimen. Fish are now rising hard and fast up the next 100yds of river and three more fish come to hand, incredibly another is well over the pound mark. The quality and size of the fish in the Honddu is amazing, the river is little more than 4m wide but is obviously rich and fertile and, to my knowledge, this beat contains only wild fish.

Now then, while I’ve been fishing on, the sun has finally slipped behind the scarp to the west bestowing those slopes with the shadows that surely named them. The moon is full and bright and the river is glistening like a stream of quicksilver. But the Honddu fish have had enough; they’ve gone back to their rootsy lairs for another day. I don’t want to go home though, the adrenalin is flowing and as the light has faded, so my senses have sharpened. So a quick stroll back down the Monnow is in order to finish the evening where we started. There are fish rising to spent Mays and sedges so I flick out Mr Edwards creation and wait for the inevitable take, but it doesn’t come, not this cast nor the next nor the one after that etc. The fish are rising all around me but clearly these trout are traditionalists, not for them the rag-tag Mohican and knick-knack styrene body, “Oh no sir!”

So what then? I have only a limited choice on me and a radical change seems in order. So… the Double Badger it is!! Except that as I’m tying it on, there is a rise opposite me which is accompanied by the type of deep sloshing sound that one would normally associate with a casually tossed house brick -except that it wasn’t a brick, it was a fish, I saw it rise, it must be a big bugger - and that suggests that my Double Badger might not be enough for him, this fish would want to “Go Large!” and have a side order of curly fries to satisfy his hunger. But it’s late, I can hardly see and I can’t be arsed to change again. So out goes the DB, more in hope than expectation. But joy of joys, the sploosher performs his encore; I tighten into him and feel that wonderful deep thudding bounce of a truly good fish. The hook is set, and so am I, this one is not going to get away. The trout fights, long hard and deep and I worry that I am going to lose him. “Oh please, if I’m going to lose him - just let me get a good look at him first”. But this is one of those “Meant to be” moments and eventually the fish tires and rolls on the surface before sliding into the net. Even in the twilight he looks a marvellous hue. I take the time to weigh him accurately before returning him to the pool. At 2lb 6oz, my best ever wild brown trout.

A splendid evening ends there and then, well the fishing does. A familiar rhythm skips across the stream, some words to a daft song echo in my mind, I can only sit on the shingle and look out across the stream in wonder…