THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
I have always been interested in birds of prey through seeing them in action, soaring in a blue sky, in the African wild. But apart from watching vultures devouring carcasses, which they do with amazing speed, you hardly ever get close to them that way.
So I was thrilled when my favorite hotel on the Mediterranean, besieged by feisty seagulls, called in an ace falconer, who arrived with a couple of ferocious looking birds, causing the gulls to beat a hasty retreat. Not as hastily, however, as when the falconer arrived with an eagle roughly the same size as him. The eagle, which takes itself very seriously, stands under a tree by the tennis court and doesn't bother to move. Not only that, I have never seen it fly; it must be like a jumbo jet trying to take off. Instead, it simply snacks on raw meat, while looking balefully around. But the sky, suddenly, is devoid of any seagull or any other bird for miles around. The eagle then struts triumphantly, with its keeper, out of the hotel grounds, satisfied at having done a good day's work.
So I wanted to find a way to make the acquaintance of a bird of prey. Of course, I dreamed of holding one on my arm on horseback, Vladimir Putin style.
I have had the good fortune to enjoy several safaris, but never had the chance to realise this ambition on them. Instead, to my amazement, I was told that the best chance of doing so was in Hampshire! For just south of Andover, you will find the Hawk Conservancy, which has its own hospital and breeding programmes for endangered species and an extraordinary rapport between the keepers and the birds.
There, you can witness displays of these majestic birds flying. You will never forget a Fish Eagle, which is the most beautiful of them all, starting by emitting its haunting cry, the most iconic sound of Africa (along with hippos grunting) and swooping right down in front of you from its high tree, before diving again, then soaring off with a fish in its talons, plucked from the surface of a pond.
This was followed by a large African Eagle Owl which, you will be warned, specialises in ultra low flying in pursuit of its prey, like the RAF flying under the radar, "so please duck when it comes your way." Soon, you will be ducking very hard as it flies past at speed a few inches above your heads, with one spectator trying to hide behind his Ipad! There follows an acrobatic aerial display by a flock of kites snatching tiny insects from the sky at a hundred miles an hour.
Then African vultures, with their huge wingspan, now an endangered species because of poachers in Africa poisoning the carcasses on which they feed, and a beautiful, elegant African stork. That afternoon, in a priceless chalkland meadow, there followed a demonstration of falcons and an eagle flying. Go to see these displays and you will be as astonished as we were.
My plan, however, was not just to watch, but to end up holding a raptor on my arm. I explained that I wanted to do so on horseback and stripped to the waist, like Vladimir Putin. I pointed out a horse in the next field. But the keeper feebly said that, "It isn't our horse," also claiming that I would need leather pads all over. My spouse objected that stripped to the waist was OK on the Russia steppe, but was frowned upon for females in Hampshire. So I had to settle for an amazing hooded African Vulture, with a wingspan large enough to block out the sky, alighting several times on me, its head going from waxen white to a rosy pink color when it was offered a snack, while trying to sample my boots.
This has whetted my appetite to try again, next time definitely on horseback!
Despite the very good influence the keepers have over these birds, they are raptors. I would advise leaving your miniature poodle at home.
Heading south from the Conservancy, you thread your way through tiny villages ("hamlets") around Monxton, with houses all covered in thatch which look as if they have been there since King Arthur's times, plus equally ancient inns. The medieval farmers in these parts were firm believers that good fences make good neighbors, enveloping their properties in magnificent hedgerows. When a honking driver overtook us in an improbably narrow lane, it was a special pleasure for us to find him further on embedded in a hedge!
The villages have some surprising names (such as Nether Wallop and Middle Wallop – I'm not joking) and road names like Duck Street and Cow Down Hill. The lanes have beautiful canopies of trees above them, to be admired as you drive gingerly down them.
But what we were heading for, of course, was the beyond famous River Test, which is only forty miles long, yet is Mecca to fly-fishermen from all over the world. The water in this limpid chalk stream is crystal clear, so you can spot each fish you are trying to catch, though they can just as easily see you, in fact more easily since, as trout have no eyelids, they can see behind them!
And you have to try to catch them on the surface, as they rise to swallow a fly – far more satisfying than dredging salmon off the bottom of Lake Michigan, as I have also been known to do. Nymphs (underwater hatching flies) sometimes are allowed, but generally they are frowned upon. The beautiful water meadows beside the river contribute to a special ambiance, as do the flocks of swans, though off-putting to the trout. The sound of the odd cow mooing is music to the ears of my spouse, who has vivid memories of being chased by Grizzlies when fishing in Alaska.
My first view of this sacred river was in the gardens of the Greyhound Inn in Stockbridge, where you can see fat trout swimming lazily along until, at the slightest sign of danger, they disappear in a flash. The ancient inn is so many centuries old that you have to bend double to get through the door (as the medieval natives were much shorter then). Once inside, you are advised to adopt a limbo posture to avoid the beams which, thankfully, these days are padded, a few visitors having been rendered unconscious by them. A less ancient section is used to enable thirsty fishermen to wine and dine and tell their tall stories about all the ones that got away.
Close by is the long stretch of river owned by the ultra exclusive Houghton Club, founded exactly two hundred years ago. It then had just thirteen members. Two centuries later, it has increased to twenty-five!
All fishermen have their favorite beats on this very special river. Some are challenging, not only to fish, but even to get there. En route to the Parsonage beat in Romsey (mysteriously pronounced "Rumsey"), we had to cross what looked and felt like a tiny hand built bridge amidst vegetation so dense that I heard my spouse muttering, "We're in the bloody jungle." This stretch of the river, like most others, is beautiful, full of little dabchicks (tiny ducks) and majestic swans. (Teenage girls in this valley, I am told, are known as dabchicks!)
Also to be found on the Test in Romsey is Broadlands, the estate of Lord Mountbatten, the crafty and wily "Uncle Dickie" in The Crown.
Elsewhere there are those who swear by Wherwell; others prefer Longparish or even Whitchurch. Some (including us) have been known to stray to fish on the magical domain of Roger Harrison on the River Itchen at Itchen Stoke, famous for its butterflies. The mill there (with the river running beneath his house!) is to be found in the Domesday Book, along with trout flies from Napoleonic times.
But our favorite is the dreamily beautiful long stretch of the Test, with its many side channels, plus the River Dun, at Kimbridge on the Test where, thanks to the owner, Clay Brendish, we had the good fortune to fish, with our friend, the writer, Wilbur Smith, for many years.
It is here that, practicing my casting, I hooked my first tree, followed by the water keeper, Stephen, then by Tony, the ace guide with Fishing Breaks (www.fishingbreaks.co.uk). Retrieving the flies gingerly from themselves or their clothes, they pretended to be used to this kind of thing and thanks to their tuition, I did eventually have one or two of my own moments of glory on the Test.
My other half has the unfair advantage of having been trained in these arts by the legendary South African fly fishing guru, Dr Tom Sutcliffe, who has convinced him that the key to success is to learn to think like a trout!
All fly-fishers dream of arriving on the river in the midst of a mayfly hatch, when the air, briefly, is chock full of flying insects and the trout go wild. But beware as, these days, the mayflies sometimes prefer June; there are so many of them, the trout may ignore your fly; and they quickly are so full, they wouldn't be interested in it anyway. All of which gives the fishers something to reminisce about in the bar.
And having made great efforts and traveled from all over the world, guess what Test fishermen do with the trout when they catch them. They are not supposed to keep more than they can eat, so nearly all of them are released back into the river, rendering the survivors a lot smarter and harder to catch than they were before.
Finally, a hot tip about eating trout. They can be delicious if grilled e.g. with almonds, immediately after catching them. But otherwise, they are at their best by far when sent off for smoking.
The hub of this special universe is what to us is the most attractive small town in England, the ancient borough of Stockbridge, which has a church which dates back to the 12th century! The main street is notable for its huge width, as it has served as a market for cattle, horses and all sorts of produce for the past several hundred years.
Proudly at its center stands the stately Grosvenor Hotel, founded by the Duke of Grosvenor two hundred years ago. Sadly, until recently, no one who could avoid doing so wanted to stay, eat or drink there at all. But all that changed three years ago, when it was rescued from the clutches of the Greene King pub chain by Simon and Teresa Henderson who (despite having no less than eight children) made it their mission to restore it to its former glory.
The attractive bedrooms have been decorated in ultra modern style, by the country house designer, Lottie Keith, known for her love of bold colors. After a long day pursuing the wily trout, it was a pleasure to sink into into the "Emperor size" huge soft bed, so vast that you curl up in two nests, with no danger of bumping into one another and climb out only reluctantly in the morning. Searching for a TV, I was surprised to find a large mirror, at the flick of a switch, turning into one. A beautiful internal courtyard, with a lawn, has been created too, with the garden bedrooms ideal for all those accompanied by their hounds. The red and green bar serves its own variety of cocktails. The now excellent dining, thanks to a Michelin trained chef, Neil Cooper, is enjoyed by hungry, thirsty and boisterous locals and fishermen, including its own speciality, called pithivier, an attractive spiral pastry, named after the town in France.
It is so heartening to see the renaissance of the Grosvenor at the heart of this beautiful little town. Ordering breakfast, you may want to try a smattering of Ukrainian, as the owners (good for them) have given refuge to two very nice Ukrainians. Please is bud laska; thank you is duzhe d'akuju.
Not far away lurks another surprise, the gastronomic Clos du Marquis, admired by Michelin. Whereas, at the Grosvenor, the very accomplished restaurant manager is called John but is really French, at the Clos you will be greeted in French – but do not be fooled, the excellent chef, Maranda Jacobs, is from South Africa.
The former U.S. ambassador to Britain, Ray Seitz, used to declare that what the British are best at is dogs and gardens (he might have added ceremonial!). But in the autumn ("season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" – Keats I think), the colours here are too restrained and tasteful for me, which I put down to British understatement. I miss the garish bright yellow and orange colors across the Atlantic. Nothing wrong with a bit of pizzazz, in my opinion. But if you visit in the spring the gardens at Mottisfont Abbey or the Hillier gardens near "Rumsey", you will see what Seitz was talking about.
Whether you are interested in adventures with birds of prey, rambling through ancient villages with thatched houses, the rejuvenated Grosvenor Hotel and other first class watering holes or casting a fly on the surface of the world's most famous trout river, you can find all that and more just one hour and a half away.
Whoever is "tired of London", according to Samuel Johnson, "is tired of life". But whenever you feel like exploring a very different world, try visiting the Test Valley. You will not be disappointed.
