On the Thursday before the river season ended me and Stuart Johnson headed off for deepest Hampshire. The weather was, to say the least, foul. A bitterly cold wind ripped across the country and short flurries of snow flickered over the windscreen as we headed down the motorway. The wind was the kind that my old granny used to call an idle wind (“too bloody idle to go round yer, so it goes through yer”!). It was indeed that kind of wind and even the poor old leafless trees were bending excessively to its threat.
We were going to an end-of-season dinner at FM member Peter Jacobs’ house on Friday evening, with some fishing planned for Thursday afternoon and Friday on the Avon. Also invited were Mark Wintle, Nigel Conner, John Pleasance, Richard Drayson and Ron Clay. Unfortunately, Ron couldn’t make the trip at all and Richard could only attend the dinner but not the fishing. In fact, only me, Stuart and Peter would be fishing on Thursday afternoon. But for the dinner and the prospect of some excellent company, Stuart and I would not have been making a round trip of about 500 miles to fish in conditions that belonged in an area much closer to a polar region. But as is often the case we had a feeling that this trip would be well worthwhile even if we didn’t wet a line, for Peter’s friendly hospitality is legendary. The thought of spending some time in the company of an angler who is exceptionally passionate about the sport (but without the blind and often selfish ambition of a pot hunter) was enough in itself. We had previously exchanged emails and spoken just once on the phone, but that gut feeling was as reliable as ever. We found Peter Jacobs to be an angler’s angler, and a gentleman to boot.
Peter’s new home in Wiltshire didn’t do anything to spoil the visit either. Right in the heart of the countryside at the top of a gentle hill, with a front view across open country and an old English wood to the rear, it was like a piece of heaven. Even as we turned off the tarmac road and trundled up the slightly rutted drive, two buzzards took to the wing from their fence post perches, and higher up two hares scampered across the ploughed field. Even in the midst of a savage winter’s end the house looked warm and inviting as it came into sight. As we drew past the five barred gate that led to the front door we half expected a red-faced old chap in plus fours with a double-barrelled shotgun on one arm and a gun dog at his side to appear. But no, it was Peter, dressed in jeans and looking every bit like a modern man. We were warmly welcomed by Peter and his charming American wife Lynn, and later we met their two great kids, 9 year old Charlotte and 11 year old Seth, who were much better behaved than both me and Stuart, calling us Mr Stuart and Mr Graham, which was bestowing upon us much more respect than we deserved. Peter’s sense of d  When you purchase through links on our site, we may earn an affiliate commission, which supports our community.
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