Summer sunrise on the Dorset Stour and somehow I’ve managed to drag myself out of my snug, warm bed. It may be at an hour which most normal members of the human race would consider the middle of the night but this time is magical and worth the effort. At this time in the morning I am almost always the only person about. I am left to wonder the banks alone, blissfully quiet in my still sleepy sate
As I slam the back door to my trusty Escort van, my mind is already focused on the short session ahead. I have only 3 hours before I have to return to the ‘grind’ and earn my pennies. This time passes quick so I must make the most of it, cover a lot of water and find feeding monsters. Hopefully my weigh sling will be wet and my memory card full before many anglers are wiping the nights sleep from their eyes.
As I make my way along the bank I am glad that I’ve put my tight waders on, the long grass is wet and the moisture is splashing up above my knees. As I pass the weir I glance at the ghostly mist rising from the rippling surface, I should take a picture but I have little time, I will take one tomorrow. The morning is cool and I fasten the top button of my Deer Hunter jacket to help keep the warmth in. I fumble around in my pocket for a handful of smelly chopped bollies and carefully place them in the first fancied swim I come to but this will be the last one I fish. I continue on my way baiting another half a dozen swims
As I reach the last swim I have to unbutton my jacket as I’ve warmed up, I’m awake now. Again, a handful of bait is tossed out close to an over hanging tree on the near bank. I place my landing net close to hand and then begin to set up. This takes very little time as all I have to do is; undo the rod protectors, push the rod together, check the hook and then bait up. My unhooking mat is unclipped and used as a seat. My lightly weighted rig is then cast some way up stream of the near bank cover and allowed to roll underneath it ‘naturally’.
As I sit there waiting I watch an Egret stalking the margin on the other bank looking for his breakfast. These African birds are now a common predator on the banks of the Wessex Rivers, just another added pressure. My focus is suddenly returned to my rod as I feel a slight tap, probably a small Dace trying to eat a bollie the size of his head. These bites continue for a further 10 minutes before suddenly stopping, hopefully signalling the arrival of larger fish.
Tap, tap and then a solid pull, a swift side strike and I connect with a fish. It doesn’t feel like a monster but a fish, worth getting up for? Always. Once the fish is safely returned I move to the next swim which proves biteless. By the time I get to the next, the first dog walkers are beginning to appear. The same dog I see every morning when I fish this stretch, runs up to me and starts to bark. Two years and the bloody thing still barks at me! I say good morning to the dog owner and I move to the next swim.
This swim is my tree swim. I can climb out on the over hanging willow and watch these fish pick up my bait. I get a real buss from this type of fishing. The morning mist has now burnt off and with my polarized glasses now coolly placed on my nose I can see right down to the river bed. Two years ago from this swim I caught a spawned out chub of 6lb 15oz in the first week of July, a true monster. This particular morning the swim was full with fish. I had three 5lbers in three casts and then two 4lbers all within 30 minutes. Twelve years ago this is front page news for the Angling Times but now just another good chub catch from the prolific Dorset Stour.
By the time I reach the last swim I have to stuff my jacket into my tackle bag. These summer mornings warm up very quickly and it won’t be long before I join another frustrating, congested, traffic nightmare. I add another 5lber to the tally before dragging myself back to the van. I long for these mornings before work to last longer. This river is my passion, my obsession and within time will produce my goal, a true peak weight monster.
This is the time to be on the banks, mystical mornings, Mother Nature’s waking hour.
Richard Trim