LONDON LETTER: Fish spotting – a dream come true

As I get older, I’m keener on making dreams come true.

Earlier this month, one did – I got to fish a chalk stream.

You may think that’s no big deal, but the biggest obstacle is the price.

However, if the cost of fishing chalk streams wasn’t higher than a mortgage, the rivers would be swamped.

It happened like this; management gave me a piece of paper stating I was booked for a day on the River Frome in Dorset on 5 July as a Christmas present last year.

When I opened it, I still had six months to wait, but even so, I was quivering with anticipation. Management said that it was the only day she could book, but I suspect six months was the amount of time needed to grovel before loan sharks or find a gun to hold up the local bank.

Six months passed and we found ourselves battling rush hour Friday traffic to Dorset.

It’s one of the most beautiful counties, but hellishly expensive because it’s both exquisitely rural but close enough to London to experience the smoke, if you so desire.

It became even more celebrated some years ago when a TV chef called Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall settled in a rustic gamekeeper’s lodge and made a series which he called River Cottage about fishing, shooting and foraging wild foods.

It became so famous (deservedly so, for a change) that TV crews eventually tarred the mud track to the cottage and the locals complained the area was getting as crowded as a football stadium.

We arrived in Dorset and were met by the fishing guide John, a ruddy-faced, massive-shouldered countryman, who was going to give me some tuition as fishing chalk streams is as different from lakes as … er, chalk from cheese.

He then suggested we have supper at the village pub down the road called The Wise Man. Management queried whether I would be let in, which I thought was a bit rude of her.

John woke me as sparrows were passing wind the next morning and we set off to the famous Frome.

Fish spotting

I soon realised I was out of my league when he started pointing out fish feeding in the riffs that I couldn’t see, despite my polarizing sunglasses.

He was keen to put me into a grayling, as I had never caught one before, although I would be equally happy with a wild brown trout.

Chalk streams are called that because the water is filtered through chalk aquifers.

There are only about 200 in the world, the most famous being the Test River, and the Frome has the distinction of being the most westerly.

It was magnificent, the water as translucent as triple-distilled vodka, with green and brown clusters of weed pulsing below.

It’s shallow, we were wading in little more than a metre and when I got the hang of it I could see fish as long as my arm.

Sight-fishing is angling at its adrenaline best. It’s finicky as all hell. One splash is enough to spook fish; one dud cast enough to send them scurrying under the weed beds.

As you flick out your fly, you can see the fish dart and it’s a heart-stopping few seconds wondering whether it’ll take it or not. Usually it doesn’t – this is fishing, not catching.

Sadly, John did not put me into a grayling. He left me after two hours as my guiding session was up. Either he thought I was good enough to continue solo, or that I was a no-hoper who would just bumble along. I hope the former, but suspect the latter.

I worked my way up the river. There was not a soul in sight. It was like being in a time warp; an England when the Saxons roamed and much of the now-trampled island was still wilderness.

I caught just one fish – a small brown trout that was as surprised as I was. But it was a day in heaven.

That evening we again retired for a quiet brewski at The Wise Man. And yes – they did let me in.