'It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it....

With Bananarama's hit ringing in his ears, our piscatorial correspondent David Profumo recalls a late-April foray after trout down South

- David Profumo

RIGHT now, I'm scouring the Scottish streams for salmon-but, earlier this year, I had some fine days down in chalk country. I began the season in late April on the Itchen, at a gorgeous club water where, until recently, I was a member, although now the roles are reversed and I was a guest of our esteemed Editor. The air was chilly, but still we greeted the new season with beakers of Bollinger at the top hut, where there is a nice stickle that often holds overwintered fish. A few olives were coming off and I was hopeful of some hawthorns (those terrestrials that can properly switch on the early trout), but, in the absence of any rises, I pitched in a parachute Greenwell's. Second cast, there was a bulge in the run, then a hallelujah moment as a brownie engulfed my artificial, holus-bolus, and I brought him to the net.

There seemed to be trout in every scoop and cranny, but most were lying doggo. When they are not feeding at the surface (or the 'upper crust', as it was termed in Walton's time), your best bet is to try a generic dry, such as a Humpy or Daddy, although this is not strictly in the Victorian chalk stream tradition. But, when in Hampshire... I took one other, then flubbed the hookset and entangled my fly in some branches. 'You've lost your touch,' pronounced Mr Hedges. Your correspondent could only incline his head apologetically.

Despite half-hearted hatches, by the time we made it back to the luncheon bench at 3pm, we had several more good fish between us. As I was disassembling my tackle, there came a mighty aquatic detonation in the top pool as a precociously early Danica dun was taken. Mayfly time was almost upon us.