Far Bank Britain’s wiliest chub
Determined to tangle with one of the Dorset Stour’s legendary big chub, Dom Garnett has been trying some unusual tactics for them...
IF I had only one remaining angling session on earth, it would probably have to be sight fishing at close quarters.
Sure, there’s pleasure in building a swim and catching a netful, but it doesn’t get much more intimate than stalking a large individual specimen in plain sight.
The famous Throop beats of the Dorset Stour are a particularly delicious place to watch monster chub at close range but, with many of the prime swims almost permanently occupied, these fish become insanely cautious.
For several seasons now, I’ve enjoyed the odd flying visit. Never, though, have I come with pints of maggots or even a seat. Instead, I pack a fly rod and waders to explore the weedy, quieter backwaters.
I’ve had many chub from this magical river. You still get funny looks for using a fly rod, but is it really so eccentric? The oldest, wiliest fish here have seen thousands of maggots and pellets but seldom see an artificial fly, in spite of gorging on the real thing. Even the ‘small’ chub on this river are impressive fish of two to four pounds. But I’ve always fancied the fly to pick out a real monster sooner or later.
However, with cooler autumn weather this time, I wondered if I’d left it too late.
As always, wading the clear back-channels was sheer bliss. Within half-an-hour I’d seen roach, dace, perch and even a marauding trout that, curiously, I had no desire to catch.
It was the next group of fish that truly stole my breath away, however. Mere feet away by a weed raft were five solid chub, including one absolute brute.
Just aiming a cast at them was nerve-shredding, but somehow I managed to drop a large dry fly right beside them.
With the leader well disguised by floating debris, the very largest chub instantly moved in to investigate. Before I even dared to exhale, a huge mouth billowed and everything went solid!
For perhaps 20 glorious seconds the rod hooped and the fish thrashed downstream. As I waded closer, however, it dived into thick streamer weed. Was it gone? No, fumbling with the net, I could still feel it kicking!
Over what seemed like a small eternity, I dug into the weed, not daring to pull any harder than 5lb line would tolerate.
A few more seconds of stalemate later, it shot out past me so close I could have touched it. But where the heck was my line going?
In a moment of slow-motion shock, I realised the chub was free while my fly had been transferred into the weed.
I fished all day, enjoying smaller chub and lightning-quick dace but never quite banishing that huge escapee from my mind. In those few seconds I’d experienced some of the most intense excitement and biggest disappointment of the entire season.