A Lake full of Vendace Surrounded by Bleached Peacocks

Apologies for the following photos and accompanying text bearing no relevance to my place of work, but half term has just passed and we've been away again, and I'll just break off there

I am aware of the whispering in corners as to how much time Madam and myself spend in other places but whisper away, as Madam and myself are currently operating under a mandate of once the work is done we're living for pleasure alone.

Mandate by the way, an unusual men's fragrance from the 1980's that preserved many a young buck's chastity - dreadful stuff.

Anyway

Italian lakes this time, Maggiore to be precise and a place that we visited a dozen or more years ago when children were small and we were camping in Switzerland and crossed the Alps via the Simplon Pass in search of warmth and cheese that tasted of something.

Gatwick was a trial and Milan Malpensa was a bit of a faff what with us landing in one terminal and the hire car being at the other forcing us to endure the interminable free bus ride with the spawn of Emerson Fittipaldi at the wheel that at one point may well have seen us skim Turin on two wheels.

Embedded in an apartment on a piazza named after that chap famed for his biscuits, a few yards from the shore in Pallanza and the ferry terminus that offered access to all that the magnificent Maggiore has to offer. There were restaurants nearby, a super bar within a stone's throw of our door where we took apperitivo each evening watching sparrows undertake their evening ablutions in a nearby fountain.

And so to our movements.

Borromean Islands first, Isola Bella, Isola Madre and Isola Superriore.

A forty minute ferry ride put us on Isola Bella, the summer retreat of the Borromea family. A stunning villa the size of which belies the fact that it was the principle summer drum of a little Italian Fella and his brood,

the ballroom alone is the stuff of the hall of the mountain kings.

Unlike many big old houses it is brim full of original objects and furniture,

the enormous windows are still thrown open and on a warm day a gentle breeze permeates the whole house.

Out in the gardens we came across a herd of bright white peacocks which added to the ethereal feel of the place.

The gardens are terraced and immaculately kept with views to all sides of the lake.

Isola Superriore next, also known as island of the fishermen. No big villa just a few small streets and a handful of boats casting nets into a lake brim full of fish. We saw many big ide, bream and roach and a new one for me the mythical Vendace. In Harry Potter terms it's the Hippogriff of the UK freshwater fish canon. A Coregonid, (freshwater whitefish cousin of herring) that is now only present in a brace of lakes in Cumbria it is a little like a grayling without the fancy fin. They don't get that big but this lake was full of the things as was the pond with fountain beside our apartament, and they even made the menu at some of the Trattoria on this island along with pike, zander and perch.

On to Isola Madre and another of the Borromea Familia's pads.

More understated this one, with an extensive collection of puppet theatres the scenery for which had been run up by the chap in charge of La Scala.

There were the requisite white peacocks and a pair of males provided some sport as they fought on the lawn

A large cyprus tree stands outside the villa held up by multiple hawsers. It toppled over in 2007 during a tornado and rather than go at with chainsaws and the medium of fire in the manner of Lord Ludgershall and myself the Borromea employed helicopters, winches and substantial funds to stand the thing up again. It's a fine tree, but the hawsers grate a tad.

Up the lake to Cannobio the next day.

Roads this time in a funky Fiat 500 that was good fun to drive. We soon mastered the practice of horn and finger as a means of communicating with fellow road users when confronted with the innumerable grey areas that are a feature of driving on Italian roads. It was a very easy car to park, which is just as well as parking can be a problem in many of these lakeside towns, it took us twenty minutes to find a space in Cannobio on a quiet midweek day, but it was worth the effort as it is a pretty place, very laid back and a town a few miles short of the Swiss border to which we would like to return.

Back home for lunch then a short walk to Villa Tarranto. Another big pile of bricks, this time on the mainland. Originally built by the Saveloy family famed for their shiny orange sausage.

Apologies, postprandial notes a little hard to read

The Savoy family and their associated hotels

It was moved on to a Scotsman around a hundred years ago who continued the work of the orange sausage dynasty and planted many things. The place is now owned by local government as it was handed over on the death of the Scottish chap in the 1960's . The house is now government offices and the gardens are a botanical affair, superbly laid out with different collections of species clearly labelled for Joe Public to understand. The Dahlia walk had yet to get going, but the collection of Acers was a highlight as were the magnolias and the unusual trees.

The next day we crossed the lake by foot on the car ferry to Levano

where we were hauled up the local alp in bins.

The bins deposited us nine tenths of the way up the alp and we completed our climb in thin air summiting around midday.

Sandwiches were taken and we were joined by a young lady with a big bag and I don't think it was anything we said

but after ten minutes she threw herself off the mountain,










With oxygen and time running out we began our descent and came across, and I may need some help here, as I know the collective term for larks is an exultation and for starlings the murmuration, for our friends the crows it's murder and geese are always a gaggle so if I've got this wrong forgive me as there's no clever sub editors here.

On our descent we came across an Infinity of Buzz Light Years. Fifty odd helmet clad men and women with wings on their back bumbling about in a narrow space on top of a mountain bumping wings and speaking in tongues

it may have been some kind of lemming worship

or possibly an Icarus cult

as one by one they threw themselves from this three and a half thousand feet summit out into the abyss.






Inevitably human nature kicks in and we tried to save the first few souls,

but were warned off by a guy in high viz replete with walkie talkie (do people still call them that?) who informed us that it was an international Hang Gliding competition and could we please stop shouting "Don't do it, nothing is as ever as bad as it seems"

Our oxygen bottles had run out and we were forced to the bins to descend. halfway down we passed a line of ascending bins full of cyclists with bikes hanging off the outside of the bins, and it dawned that all those fold up planes had made it up the mountains in bins too. Well done the cyclists by the way, get a lift up the thousand odd metre mountain in a bin and just do the downhill bit, who needs gears?

Stresa on the Saturday, a town that we visited twelve years ago, crossing the Alps via the Simplon Pass from our campsite in the Valais in search of sunshine and cheese that tasted of something.

It being the weekend everywhere was busy and the islands that we visited midweek that were quiet were now rammed with many Milanese,

security on the ferries had also slipped a bit.















Stresa was all that we remembered, if a little busier. We found the shop where Child B had purchased a faux Shevchenko Inter Milan shirt, the stall where Child A had punished the Gelato and the Cafe in the square where we took Pizza for lunch. A Margherita (Child A and Child B's pizza of first choice at the time) cost five euros back then, on this visit the price had rocketed to five euros fifty cents, so we withdrew our custom and took beer on the other side of the square.

Home the next day (It was only a few days, all those who say I should be working) from five days of thirty degree heat to rising winds and plummeting temperatures.

I have sunburn on my nose, am carrying a few extra pounds (weight! not money, definitely not money) but am replete following another splendid trip. It's a stunning place to spend a few days, and Milan Malpensa is a cheap place to fly to, food was terrific, gardens were stunning and all bar the parking was incredibly laid back,

Here's one of the Parking ticket committee

We've visited this country a few times in recent years and our grasp of the lingo now results in us being presented with the German version of the guidebook for whatever attraction that we are about to visit. I consider this progress, if not assimilation and we have subsequently put in a cheeky offer on this house.

It included the words "all that we have, benign labrador, at least two chickens and a whisky jar full of coppers" but we expect the vendor to question the positioning of the decimal point in the offer's final figure,

but we await a reply.

Breakdown, Recovery plus Scouts and Guides

Hello everybody, here goes with another thousand words of guff,

But first an appeal.

We all see them. Sitting silently with pleading eyes in all weathers at the entrance to shops. Shabbily dressed, pleading, desperate for offerings. We all pass them by, quickening our step or averting our gaze. A silent minority whose plight we all seek to ignore.



This bank holiday weekend spare a thought for the AA salesmen, whether outside your local supermarket or in the foyer of the motorway services. Stop when they hail you and show some compassion and feign interest in their plight.

The Big Issue gets all the heat when it comes to rattling a cup at Joe Public but spare a thought for Roadside assistance packages and Free Onward Travel.

AA street salesmen, the forgotten few.

Well that's the appeal box ticked to preserve the charitable status of the house, so on to the fishing.

Mayfly is in full swing and last evening while prone in a bath I was joined by a hundred voyeuristic mayfly who danced outside the window throughout my ablutions. There have already been some good falls of spent and fish rise to both dunns and spinners from early afternoon on. Most beats are booked and guides and scouts parade up and down Stockbridge High street persuading their clients that this Mayfly fishing is a damned difficult business. It's a perennial four week festival of dry fly fishing on a chalk river at its sparkling best and on some beats more fish will be caught in one week in May than throughout the whole of August. Last week we had two inches of rain which freshened things up a bit, but the lift in water a few days after the rain fell that is indicative of aquifer replenishment never came and all of what fell was claimed by the top layer of soil and its plants and vegetation, but it was a start and two inches of rain a week from now until the end of June should have an impact.

So fingers crossed for the weather forecast,

News just in from Mr Schaffenacker, dry for a while,

As you were everyone.

Popped up to the Carron to flick a fly at Salmon for a few days last week. You may think it's a long way to go for two days fishing, but it is a very special bit of river and one that I could never afford to fish on my own fishing budget so it is always a very welcome invitation. There is a house, a merry band of four rods willing to share and Margaret the Magnificent comes to cook each evening (scallops the size of your hand with a ring of black pudding atop - now that's a starter!).

There wasn't much water this year, the two inches that we had at home missed the north of Scotland, and fish were holed up in pots and gullies, clearly visible from above as they stuck two fins up to even the most carefully presented Black Francis.

I was woken each morning by nothing more than a cuckoo outside the window and the occasional bleat of a sheep. No fish were caught but a tremendous trip all the same. Thank you once again for having me.

On the way home I purchased the necessary gifts for the ever officious security team at the airport that serves as a gateway to the Highlands and Islands (they never send a thank you card, even for the 110ml of shampoo I handed over last year) and returned home.

Where Madam had kindly held the fort and undertaken every dog walk and other associated outdoor tasks in torrents of rain

The grass has grown a lot and all trees bar the Mulberry and Ash (many of which are not in the best of health) are in full leaf, rain has caused bank side willows to nod a little towards the river making a few of those lies that were called out as "far to easy" at the fishing lunch in April a little more tricky. I won't be cutting much weed on either the Dever or Itchen in June, although it may be a different story in July. I have yet to see a brood of duck which seems quite late, although several are sitting and today I saw my first snake of the year, taking a siesta in the early afternoon sun after feasting on frogs in the flight pond.

I was also invited up to the top of the Avon for an afternoon. Always a fun trip there were many mayfly, much weed and I caught fish off the top in a river that was short of water and a little more murky than one would normally expect.





And then we woke one morning to the madness in Manchester.

It's a tremendous city, and one which I frequented many times in my youth, drawn with friends to the fleshpots of Affleck's Palace off Oldham St and its ready supply of ripped 501's and fancy shoes and jackets, yes I was quite the thing once, what with the ear ring positively piratical.

I am the father of a young man aged twenty two and young woman of twenty four who are on the cusp of embarking on the adventure that is the oft complicated but ultimately rich soup of life.

What drives another young person of similar age to plan and commit such an act is beyond my comprehension,

There is evil afoot.

Further Dimbulbs and Worms, plus many Weasels

Just been watching the weather from the local wing of state TV

When did " it will be sunny"

become

"there will be some brightness"?

Why not add "with no little contrast" if we are trying to up the word count.

Dimbulbs!

Anyway, good evening everyone and here's the latest news from this parched part of this once great Isle.

The river continues to fish its head off with the first knockings of the Mayfly producing many fish. It's just the odd Mayfly presently but shuffling about in the gravel with my fine net confirm that there are many larvae in the gravel on the cusp of hatching.

Many fish are falling to "small brown jobs" on a size 14 and a few have been pricked and lost although not nearly as many as the opening weeks of last season. The river continues to carry a little colour and an increasing amount of foam on the water in the first few hours of the day is indicative of a river that has not benefited from a good scour during the winter months. We have had a few heavy showers but aquifer replenishment at this time of the year requires days and days of steady rain as all the plants are now wide awake and slaking their winter induced thirst.

During recent skirmishes in the Bourne Valley in the name of prolonging life through plodding, Madam and myself came across an expanse of pasture, recently cultivated and re-drilled with grass. In the absence of moisture no germination had taken place and with no roots to hold the thing together and provide some form of cohesion the ten inches of tilled soil bore the consistency of sugar.

One heavy shower could see much of this field end up in the Bourne.

What times we live in,

I remember farmers in Cheshire cultivating slopes in a particular manner in order to prevent losing soil, it may even have been mentioned in O Level geography and I 'm sure other cultures are all over the "hanging on to your top soil on slopes in times of sudden intense rainfall" conundrum.

On a couple of occasions it has been suggested by experts that I fling a load of breeze blocks into the river to provide an easy lie for developing brown trout. Apart from the look of the thing and the inevitable accusation of fly tipping, our developing trout do well enough for easy lies. It doesn't take much, a stone the size of a fist is ample for a tired trout in search of an easy meal in this river.

These Trout would seem to concur and are doing well enough without a delivery from Buildbase.

It's started raining now and while the garden and grass are grateful, public and press attention will turn away from water shortages but the aquifers around here will receive little of the rain that falls. It takes an awful lot of steady rain at this time of the year for aquifer replenishment and much of what has fallen in recent days will not get further than the first few feet of soil. I could still walk up our river banks in six inch stilettos if I so chose without any real fear of sinking a heel.

Last week saw me resume my practice of throwing things at the television. A local news feature on river levels featured a weasel from a water company insist that aquifer levels were not causing concern and that there had been adequate replenishment this winter.

Well for "not causing concern" read "couldn't give two ticks about the river, all we are concerned with is providing domestic supply as cheaply as possible in order to maximise profit"


Weasels! Weasels! Weasels!

I'll now proceed to jab my finger a bit.

Who caused the foam problem in this river two seasons ago?

Whose name was on the side of that van sending brown water pumped from a hole they had dug in the road down a ditch into the river in June?

Who put up the signs on bridges crossing a chalk stream and SSSI advising people that raw sewage had been pumped into the river and please wash your hands and dogs if they come into contact with the water?

Who is opposing the reduction of the abstraction licence for the Candover stream arguing that rather than reduce the impact to the aquatic environment we should carry on as we have and they'll have the water for domestic supply?


I could go on and frequently have but,

Oh sod it, this will have to suffice:

Weasels! Weasels! Weasels!

Returning to the river, which our water man would insist is running at a normal level, despite features such as this appearing midstream.

This kind of thing happened in the summer of seventy six, Ernie Mott, a keeper on the middle river at Leckford took full advantage and famously grew his tomatoes for that year in the middle of beat fourteen, or possibly twelve.

I've a mind to emulate old Ernie, so If you see a Poly tunnel in the middle of the Itchen below Easton bridge, or some growbags in the middle of the Dever in Bransbury you'll know what's afoot, just don't scrump my tomatoes.

Worms

Which brings me onto the roach, who like a worm but have currently gone spoony and moon about in shallow water in preparation for spawning. There's a few lumps in evidence but nothing to match the fish I saw spawning three years ago which I put at over three pounds.

Weasels Worms Dimbulbs and their impact on Groundwater Supply

Week one,

Done.

Hawthorn was early, heavy but brief and as always has served as the flicking of a switch where our brown trout are concerned and many fish now lie up on the fin seeking further surface dainties. Fishing isn't easy, stealth is required not to spook fish in low clearing water, but many fish were caught in the first week including two lumps of three pounds. All fish appear to have over wintered well. We now undertake a two week hiatus before the river erupts with mayfly. Weed remains slow to grow possibly due to a cold river, we've also had a bit of the ugly brown algae that is now a regular occurrence at this time of the year. Lifting from the bottom of the river on a sunny day it breaks up as it passes through broken water adding a murky tint to the river. It is always more prevalent after a dry winter, a wet winter (or what was once considered normal winter) acts as a Grandmother's flannel to a mucky grandchild, providing a good scrub behind the ears and ridding the river of the insidious brown gunk.

Some swallows have turned up, few in number they have yet to nest on the special platforms we erected under the eaves of the new workshop. Kingfishers are nesting a few yards beyond the ash tree on the opposite bank on the top shallows and the mill stream already plays host to millions of minnows over which this pair and the pair nesting near our bottom boundary, will undertake daily dog fights as they both lay claim to the minnows to feed their young.

Cuckoo flowers are out, but no sign yet of a cuckoo and marsh marigolds provide a gaudy backdrop to both the river bank and the meadows. Last week we had three frosts, the third a particularly hard one for the time of year that saw temperatures bottom out at minus four degrees half an hour before dawn.

My dahlias and potatoes have turned black and the spectacular wisteria that adorns the end of the Mill House has given up its flowers, we can only wait and see as to how the apples and pears will be this year. Reynard still stalks the parish and I am diligently shutting our remaining chooks up each evening who reciprocate with an egg each day.

Cricket has broken out and this past weekend saw two games where spin held sway, the ball raced to the outfield and runs were easy to come by. The pitch and outfield are redolent of late June or early July, and this at a ground on the banks of the main River Test where we normally struggle with puddles in the opening games and runs are hard to come by on a verdant track that is doing a bit. There is a small borehole that we use for watering the square. It is of simple design and it is possible to take the top off and make a visual assessment of the ground water level, which I am sure you will understand, I do quite a lot.

It is frighteningly low, the cricket ground could take two weeks of constant heavy rain and the puddle in front of the pavilion would fail to form. There are winterbournes and spring ditches across the region that are bone dry and will not now run this year. The signs were there at the turn of the year and I am told that at Command Centre Central there were meetings, but we are now in May and still no warnings about the almost inevitable water shortages this summer. The way we use our groundwater supply in the South East of England is no longer sustainable, pulling it out of the ground and sending it away to sea is a wager with Madam Water Cycle that we are currently losing heavily. More treated water must be returned to the aquifer as close to the point of abstraction as possible to push the odds a little more in the chalk stream's favour.

Recent perambulations in the name of extending life saw us parking the car in Micheldever Wood. A stunning stand of predominantly beech, it is carpeted with billions of bluebells at this time of the year and draws quite a crowd.

Leaving the wood and climbing up onto Itchen Down you crest a hill with a broken down wind pump at the summit that marks the boundary point between the Dever (and subsequently the Test) and the Itchen Valley. Rain falling on one side will enter the aquifer and make its way into the Dever, rain falling on the other will enter the aquifer and make its way to the Itchen, probably via the Candover Stream.

Only now it doesn't quite work like that.

The Upper Itchen has a slightly higher environmental classification than the Dever. Water is abstracted from the aquifer to maintain a minimum flow down the Candover stream to provide succour to the Upper Itchen in times of low flow. It's an operation that has been undertaken for some years, but recently the Environment Agency has noticed that the Candover stream abstraction has been taking water from the other side of the hill that would otherwise have ended up in the Dever (Feel free to check back through this guff for the number of times that I have stated "this river seems to drop at an increasingly alarming rate during prolonged periods without rain)

The Environment Agency have quite rightly stated that this can't continue as we are not yet at the stage where we have to choose which chalk streams we want to keep and which ones we must trash in the name of providing water for domestic supply, and have requested a significant reduction in the amount of water permitted to be abstracted and sent down the Candover stream during dry periods. Our local water company however has objected and state "if you don't want the water on the original abstraction licence to maintain river flow, we will have it for domestic supply".

The case is currently with the Minister of Environment ( I think, although it may require the Minister of Magic) and the Dever waits to see if it will get back a small proportion of its groundwater supply that for some number of summers has been sent down the Upper Itchen.

We headed over the hill and down into the Itchen valley, passing through parched fields and a piece of down land where Hambledon CC, who Longparish had played the previous day, played an England side in 1772.

We once again managed to turn a six miler into a nine miler as we got lost in Micheldever wood, as all bluebells and beech trees look the same following a good lunch with the map in the bag due to over confidence through wine.

Returning down the Dever Valley we popped over to the bridge at Weston Colley to take a look at water levels and read the old water depth gauge in the upper reaches of the Dever.

I know my eyes are not what they used to be, but the gauge didn't seem to be there,

which may be an indication as to the direction the Minister of Magic's thumb will point regarding the return of some of the Dever's groundwater.

Private Water Companies eh?

Tut.

Weasels! Worms! Dimbulbs!