Feed rabbits. Put rod case, fishing bag and new landing net in back of car. Head for the adventure highway, the A21, by my ‘secret route’ via Penge and Keston village (it avoids Bromley). Going to a new fishery using vague instructions written on a bit of paper offers more excitement and anticipation than the generally robotic certainty of satnav (I have one, but am a reluctant user).
Near Tonbridge, the A21 is midway into being converted into a dual carriageway which has added 30 minutes of annoyance to my Saturday morning adventures for the past two years. When will it end? I go off the A21 at Pembury.
Stop at a garage to refresh with donuts and coffee, thereby thickening arteries. Catch up with texts and voicemails. The modern human is rarely offline. The weather is cheering up a bit but I actually don’t want it to. Warm water puts trout off feeding. Soon I am on b-roads bordered by hedges. Frothy hawthorn blossom is everywhere. The agriculture is not too industrial in this corner of England. Smallish fields, horses and cows grazing. There are villages with ancient cottages clad in wisteria but they are not so cute and twee as to make this into a theme park, like the Cotswolds. Still, this is an affluent part of Kent. The pubs are nearly all gastro, with tables for expensive meals rather than low-slung seats, cozy nooks and corners, an old dog and a local darts team.
What did the instructions say? At the village of Matfield turn left into Chestnut Lane. Where is it? I ask and gain somewhat confusing directions at the lovely Wheelwright Arms. I drive past a large, well-mown village green. A couple of lads are float fishing in the village duck pond, as lads have been doing for centuries. That would be great for me and the grandkids. It’s an archetypically English scene and this village has three pubs (make mental note). Ah there’s Chestnut Lane, which will lead me to Foxhole Lane (hopefully).
Going to the fishery, the roads become narrower, the houses more rustic, many built in weatherboard in the local style. Finally, a small wooden sign take you off the tarmac and onto a road which is two strips of mud. The hedges and trees are beautiful. You are now driving past an orchard in full blossom. You see a bee hive. The sun is out. OK, I forgive it. The lane finally leads takes you to something that resembles a goat track in the Andes plummeting down a ravine. Can this be right? Turn a corner. There it is, the fishing lodge, a timber building in tasteful black.
Lee, the fishery keeper, has the slow, wise manner of a Kentish Bruce Willis. He’ll advise you on flies and tactics – in this case, the trusty hare’s ear and the damsel nymph, without beads so that they don’t sink too deep. We both know that being midday this is the worst possible time to start fishing. On the plus side, this is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever been to.
The fishery is basically three stream-fed lakes feeding tributaries of the River Medway. You go down a steep hill to the lakes. This place feels intimate, secret. Around you are newly-planted oak saplings and bluebells. There’s a tree house. It’s like a beautiful, well-kept garden that is also a woodland. Magical. And this isn’t trout fishing for businessmen in Range Rovers who work in the city. It’s affordable. Even if you didn’t catch anything (a distinct possibility) you would still want to be here. Well I would.
My rod is small and light – a 6/7. The rig (fly fisherman don’t call it that) is set up in less than five minutes. Line, leader (fine almost invisible monofilament) and the fly that Lee has just sold me for 50 pence, the damsel nymph. There’s lots of fly action on the lake, insects, including no doubt damsel flies, are hatching all over. The hare’s ear which has been used since the beginning of fly fishing, looks like lots of insects, Lee explains, which is why it works. It can be deadly. I choose a spot at the bottom of the slope on the near side of the main lake. There’s not much fish action. I can’t see any rises to snap food from the surface, or trout leaping out of the water (they do, often).
There are two other fisherman. One is a black guy! That’s unusual and I would like to talk to him (journalist instinct kicking in). Probably best not to. Their body language suggests that not much is happening. Both are skillfully casting into the middle of the lake. When’s it’s done well, as here (I still can’t cast like these guys) the line uncurls perfectly straight, delivering the fly softly, almost lazily onto water. It looks like Tiger Woods lofting a ball onto the green. The soft landing is important. Trout are easily spooked.
I’m not feeling too optimistic. Might blank today (catch nothing). Oh well. Heaven would probably be something like this – mixed oak woodland next to an orchard, sun shining, willow warblers and chiffchaffs singing, a lake. It can’t be so bad. Lots of casts produce nothing for an hour or so. No-one is catching. Eventually I get some short tentative nibbles … and then … there's a fish on the line. I think. I pull it in. It’s a tiny silver specimen with red around the fins – like what the boys will catch in Matfield duck pond. A roach? I am used to catching those, with floats and maggots. At least it’s something. I feel a muted sense of triumph. I unhook it and put it gently back into the water. The other fishermen pretend not to notice. It’s fishing etiquette. Only if I was wresting with an aquatic leviathan would one of them acknowledge that anything was happening on the bank. They might even help me to land it.
Five minutes later, another one comes along. It’s s bit bigger this time, 6 oz. These small fish (skimmers) are going for the damsel fly near the top of the water. Soon I can feel them on the end of the line. It’s good to know that something is working, but it’s not what I am here for. I start to cast a bit further afield, not into the centre of the water but the dark, weedy margins, where the water is quite shallow. Too shallow?
Soon it’s on the deck. The fish has lovely mottling that I have never seen before. It’s a tiger trout, a cross between a brown trout and a brook trout (an American species). It’s about two pounds. Small but big enough to eat. Time to deploy the priest – small club used by fly fishermen to whack the fish on the back of the head, with a couple of short, sharp blows. I do so with mixed and complicated feelings and a silent prayer to the woodland gods. My ancestors did this. They paddled small boats and cast lines onto the water. They killed warm and cold-blooded animals in skilful ways learnt from other humans. Does that mean that it’s Ok for me too? I am a modern human (allegedly), with a broken satnav. I eat fish and they have been killed too. That is my justification for what I am doing. I don’t know if it’s a good one. I know that unlike the expense account fattened businessmen in their Range Rovers I would not go shooting …
By the way, the small silver fish that I returned to the water weren’t roach but rudd – a different species with quite different habits. Lee explained that to me, saying the lakes here are full of them. They have upturned mouths, because they like to eat flies – like Piers Morgan. I was still on the lake long after the others had gone. I caught no more trout. By six dusk was manifesting itself. I changed tactics a few times. The trusty cat’s whisker (a white lure made form marabou feathers) yielded a little bit of interest but nothing major. I reverted to the olive damsel. The nibbly little bites started again. I amused myself by using tactics designed to attract the rudd and caught a couple more.
As the light faded, more flies came out. Soon, bats would flit over the water in this sylvan paradise. The trout became more apparent and I could feel that fishing might be more productive. Another tiger or a brown would have been nice. But I was tired and hungry. Time to go home.
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