Trout, Chub, and the Magic of the Lesse

Ah, the Lesse—what a river. If you’re after wild brown trout or those cheeky chub that lurk in the undercuts, this slice of the Ardennes is where you want to be. Funny story—last summer, I hooked a trout near the old stone bridge that fought like it had a personal vendetta. Took me into the backing twice before I finally got a look at it. But let’s start at the beginning.

The water here? Crystal clear, cold as a banker’s heart in winter, and just alive. You’ll hear it before you see it—that steady rush over the rocks, the occasional splash of a fish rising. And the smell? Wet moss and pine needles, with that faint iron tang of the riverbed. It’s the kind of place that makes you forget your phone exists.

Now, here’s the thing about the Lesse: it’s wadeable, mostly. Start at the village of—wait, no, actually, let’s clear this up first. Google Maps calls it the "Lomme" here, but trust me, it’s the Lesse. Some local cartographer must’ve had a few too many Trappists that day. Anyway, park by the BBQ spot (yes, there’s a grill—priorities, right?), suit up, and pick your poison.

Upstream or downstream? Personally, I prefer heading left—upstream. The current moves like… well, imagine melted chocolate, if chocolate had a grudge. It’s gentler, with pockets behind every other rock where trout stack up like commuters at rush hour. Nymphing’s my go-to here, especially with a pheasant tail or a hare’s ear. But don’t sleep on dry flies in the evenings—last June, the blue-winged olives came off so thick you could barely see the water.

Downstream’s trickier. Wider, deeper in spots, and the fish are skittish as cats in a dog park. But oh, the riffles… There’s one bend just past the willows where I’ve lost more flies than I care to admit. Worth it, though. Streamers? Yeah, they work—even the small trout here have egos bigger than the fish themselves.

Now, the paperwork. Look, it’s Belgium, so of course there’s bureaucracy. You’ll need the Wallonia license (standard), but for this stretch, you’ve got to email Manuel at the local club. Nice guy, patient with my butchered French. Fifteen euros for the day, or eighty-five for the year—honestly, if you’re coming back, just get the year. The website’s in French, but Google Translate’s your friend. Pro tip: mention "la pêche à la mouche" in your email—it’s like a secret handshake.

Other stretches? Sure, but it’s a puzzle. Some bits only need the Wallonia license, but they’re picnic zones—great if you like casting over screaming kids and the smell of charred sausages. Evening’s your best bet, when the crowds thin and the fish start looking up.
And the chub—don’t ignore them. They’re everywhere, greedy as seagulls at a chip stand. Not as glamorous as trout, but on a light rod? Pure fun.

Seasons change everything here. Spring’s high and fast, summer’s low and technical, autumn… ah, autumn’s golden. Literally. The trees turn, the water cools, and the trout get reckless. Just watch your step—those rocks are slicker than a politician’s promise.
So that’s the Lesse. Not the easiest, not the most convenient, but damn if it isn’t worth it. Tight lines, and save a beer for me at that BBQ spot.