River Stour, Dorset

The Wild Trout Trust's annual auction provides a lovely way to experience 'once in a lifetime' days on far off, private waters.

In this year's auction, I spotted a new opportunity - a day for two on the River Stour in Dorset.

Bjorn Annegarn wades in the Dorset Stour

I reached for Rangeley-Wilson's defining bible and found the Stour included in the ranks of the chalkstreams, even if it came with something of a caveat: "For a few miles between Blandford and Wimborne the Stour carries so much chalk water that it is to all intents and purposes a chalkstream. It has all the characteristics of one in May, though its personality will change in February."

I enjoy fishing new chalkstreams - something which is becoming ever more difficult with each passing year as the main, publicly accessible rivers are exhausted. Unlocking the more obscure chalkstreams is quite fun in its own way.  

After some furious last-minute bidding, I won. I was pleased that credit card statements no longer arrive through the letterbox for the wife's perusal.

Regular fishing friend, Bjorn Annegarn, would join me as my plus one, with the Stour being a relatively straightforward journey due south from his home in Wiltshire. The distance from my home was just outside a comfortable day's drive so I arranged a weekend away for the family. We really enjoy visiting Dorset - it's close enough to be convenient and far enough to feel like a break.

We were hosted by Iain Scott who immediately ingratiated himself into what Bjorn called "legend status" by producing bacon rolls and coffee from his bag of tricks. Iain was patient, obliging and seemed genuinely invested in ensuring that we had the best possible experience of the Stour.  

Bjorn and Iain survey the Stour

In keeping with the season's theme, it was another scorching hot day. Unsurprisingly, Iain suggested that the late evening hours might provide the best fishing but with a three hour journey home, I needed to leave long before the evening rise. I did attempt a negotiation with the wife - by telephone from the riverbank - extolling the virtues of staying in a hotel for another night. My case hit the rocks when it became apparent we'd need to leave at 4am if we wanted to be sure of getting our eldest child into school on time. C'est la vie.

It was mid-June, and as Rangeley-Wilson said, the river was crystal clear, and it looked like any other lowland chalkstream I have fished. The chalk flint which showed in the river's eroded banks and lay deposited on the stream bed was a rich honey-gold.

Iain took us to a grand, sweeping pool which he called 'Duffer's Pool'. We hugged the shade and ate our breakfast, whilst watching the water. Through the already sharp glare several large chub could easily be seen, as they jostled about for whatever reason. To whet the appetite, a few of them were rising to take natural flies. 

Iain suggested that we first fish the attractive run of water which left the pool. I took first dibs and eventually, where the riffle churned through at its fiercest, a fish took my nymph. It remained attached only for a brief time - not long enough to see what it was. I flicked the nymph forward into the same run and was rewarded with another take - a little grayling, speckled in yellow. 

Bjorn fishes through the water where I caught a grayling. Note the inviting pool to his left.

The chub had continued to rise in Duffer's Pool. Bjorn inched forward into the pool to be sure that his line would not be carried away by the tailrace, and drag. The chub were not put off by the bow waves he sent forward, for they continued to rise, and when his Parachute Adams alighted it was engulfed within a second. Bjorn's excitable strike was too strong and his line went twanging past his ear sans fly.

The chub were spooked and had no truck with Bjorn's further offers. He had, however, become so preoccupied with the shoal of chub thirty feet away that he had failed to spot the fox prowling near his own feet... 

Just as Bjorn began to lift his fly to make another cast, the unseen fish grabbed it. The take took all of us by surprise. Judging by the ensuing theatrics, it was obviously a strong fish. I caught sight of it in the depths when it turned and struck the light. I thought I had seen spots and remarked, "I think it's a trout, and a good one!" The fish leapt from the water, sunlight striking a wet sheen of spots and tail shaped like a wide shovel. It was indeed a trout, and one of some considerable heft.

Bjorn's demeanour changed - he now knew what was at stake and he nursed the trout as if his fly line was made of brittle horsehair. I stood ready to net the fish and duly heightened his nerves by lunging at the trout whenever it came within range - and missing each time!

For a moment, the great fish raced directly downstream towards me. I thought it must stop but it ploughed on for the pool's exit. I leapt out the way at the last second, barely keeping my balance to avoid a cold plunge. The trout opened a gap on Bjorn who went splashing downstream after it. Iain later confided that he thought the game was up at that stage. 

But Bjorn clung on valiantly and eventually wrestled the trout into my all-too-small net, ending the nerves all round. At around 3 to 4 lb it was his best brown trout, and he was delighted. He has enjoyed a purple patch this season.

Along with a handful of little chub, I would catch a rather more modest trout with a nymph and that was prize enough for me - a trout from a new chalkstream. Looking back at the photo, it may have been a salmon parr.

A festival was taking place nearby and music blared over the fields. Crowns made of meadow flowers drifted down the current, somehow lost or given up to the river by the festival's Bohemian spirits.   

We paused for a welcome picnic lunch in the dappled shade of an ancient dark-leaved willow.

After our meal we continued our gradual meandering upriver. We paused atop a cliff bank to peer into one of the river's deepest pools, when Iain whispered for us to freeze. A trout of at least 5 lb had emerged from the murky depths and now cruised in plain sight. Bjorn, who seemed to have developed a rapid onset of Big-Fish-Fever, went straight for a streamer in his box. On perhaps his tenth stripping of a Pancora Woolly Bugger through the pool the great fish relented and snapped at the fly. For the briefest moment Bjorn dared to dream but the hook-up failed, and he and Iain let out unprintable expletives.  

We shared the river with flotillas of paddle boarders 

Ultimately, the day became a story about a single trout which will live long in Bjorn's memory. Thanks to Iain's kind offer to return, I may yet visit the delightful Stour again.