Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

Last week a trip to the River Tamar in Cornwall had to be abandoned because of a bridge closure. A very long detour on a bright spring day, along beautiful country lanes, was no substitute for fishing. A dry, sunny, fishing day had been cancelled. Moreover, during a river walk, I had lost the key to the Defender’s battery isolator and had to bodge a connection with a nut and bolt scavenged from a bracket in the cab. On the way home, in the rain, the wipers stopped working.

I bought a new key and fixed the wipers. I wanted to fish the pool on the Tavy where, on the last cast of the 2023 season, I’d caught a 3lb brownie. I waited until noon before heading to the River Tavy. Another road closure. I cursed and pulled over to consider plan B. I headed in the opposite direction, towards the River Plym, only to find a group of kayakers had trashed the entire Beat. The day was not going well.

Plan C was initiated. The River Walkham was secure behind locked gates and the silence of the deep valley would ease my frustration. After a few miles a sixth sense guided me off the main road, along unfamiliar, narrow country lanes to the Lower Beat of the Tamar. No satnav, just instinct. The sight of the river, bathed in spring sunshine, lifted my spirits and I tackled up expecting good things. I forgot about road closures and electrickery.

The long rod helped me roll the nymph into midstream and kept the main line out of the bankside briars. A quick upstream mend allowed the nymph to sink and swing round enticingly beside the near bank. The tree roots and woody debris were an ideal hiding place. A small trout seized the fly and came off within a few seconds. My first contact with a Dartmoor trout this season.

I moved downstream, exploring the pools and the channels in the bedrock. Another, slightly bigger trout, grabbed the fly and stayed on the hook slightly longer. I was enjoying the sunshine and two hooked fish from two takes was progress.

I wandered along the path to the tail of the big pool. The pool was unfishable with a nymph. I crept along the bank positioning myself next to the culvert where I had unhooked and released my best Dartmoor trout. I recalled the explosive take, could it happen again ? After an hour spent carefully covering all the holding places, I made my way back to the Defender. I might return in a couple of days.

The river was at a good level after weeks of spates. The sun was shining but heavy rain was forecast for the afternoon. An early start was required. I left the cottage at 9:00am, that’s early enough.

The wood, deep in the Walkham valley, hadn’t been visited for months. There were no footprints or paw prints and the brambles grew across the path. The trees were festooned with bright green lichen and the buds on the hazel trees were only just breaking. I could see the main river from the path, the lack of foliage gave me a long view across the valley to the far side where the fir trees had been clear felled to make way for native broad leaves.

I saw my first trout in the leat, it saw me first and bolted upstream. The leat was three feet deep in places and flowed swiftly fifty feet above the river level. I thought I might dangle a nymph there on the walk back out of the wood.

I started just above the fish pass and then moved upstream to the long, gentle left hand bend. The long rod was an advantage, I could hide behind tree trunks and flick the nymph a few yards down and across, exploring the rocks and tree roots along the far bank. The birds were in full song, the only species I could identify was a buzzard. I expected a take with every cast but I found myself back at the fish pass without bothering a trout.

The very deep water immediately above the weir look good. Surely four feet of slow moving water would hold a few fish. I spent a while covering all the patches of sand, rock ledges and the bubble line but the rod stayed straight.

The sky clouded over, the temperature dropped and rain began to fall. Time to go home. I paused beside the leat and ran the nymph through several holding places but the trout were not at home. I’m not sure about early morning fishing. I’d rather have a leisurely breakfast and fish in the evening.

I visited the lakes a few days ago on a special mission. To help my grandson catch his first trout on a fly. It was a beautiful spring day, no jacket required. Success, he caught two. Mission accomplished.

Sunday. Sunny, the week before Easter. Not the best time to open my season but the river level was good and heavy rain was forecast all day Monday. The rivers would be out of action for several days. I had a new rod and it seemed fitting to use it on opening day. My favourite Beat on the River Plym was an obvious choice. The Beat is a mixture of pools and riffles which would give me a chance to work the new rod both upstream and down and across with a weighted nymph.

The water was crystal clear, the stones were bright and the woody debris had been washed away. I paddled in the margin, the water temperature was higher than I had expected. A few olives and March Browns were hatching but there were no signs of trout. I used a Rio #3 fly line with a long leader and tippet and chose a weighted fly to get down deep in the strong current. It was not ‘Euro’ or ‘French’ or any of the other modern fads, just a normal fly line and conventional leader.

I spent a while using the first riffle to experiment with the rod, a 10′ 6″ Sage ESN II #3. It was extremely light and the action suited a fast spate river. The length helped me keep in touch with the fly and position it accurately. First impressions were good. I fished a few pools, walking slowly upstream. The woods were silent, no dog walkers. I marked a few branches for pruning next weekend on the club’s workparty and picked up some litter.

The rod was great, it did the job well and enabled me to concentrate on working the fly. It’s more refined than my Hardy and it will be my rod of choice for the West Devon rivers.

I found myself in the Grosvenor Hotel, Stockbridge, with time to kill. The art deco bar beckoned but there were trout to watch and tackle shops to explore.

Along the high street a small trout held station above a road bridge, ready to drift back into cover if unsettled. In a side stream beside the pavement, a much larger fish waited on a patch of pale gravel for bread or pellets. I had neither and it eventually slid upstream to rest alongside the pillar of a bridge. The late afternoon January sky threatened rain and it was chilly. Time to seek refuge in a tackle shop.

 

Five years earlier I had visited Farlows on Pall Mall. I wandered around the store, looking for nothing in particular, constantly telling myself not to buy anything. The rod racks were well stocked. I have always had a vision of my perfect fly rod; long, light, down-locking reel seat and cheap. I found several rods that met only the first three criteria.

A very helpful young man took a rod from the rack and gave it to me, a clever ploy which usually results in a sale. I waggled the rod. The double height ceiling enabled a good waggle without snicking the light fittings. I immediately felt a bond with the rod. I reached for the small price ticket tied to the butt ring and recoiled in horror at the number of digits. I forced a smile and gave the rod back, the young man looked disappointed. I left the shop, credit card intact, also feeling disappointed. In the taxi to Victoria station, on the train home and throughout the years since, I have regretted not buying that rod.

 

Meanwhile, I entered Robjent’s internalising a mantra to protect me from buying anything other than a few leaders and hooks. On a previous visit to the shop I had been bullied into buying a very expensive Rio fly line, a Robjent’s Chalkstream special. I was dubious but it turned out to be a game changer and I use it all the time.

Three tapered leaders were extracted from a drawer but I drew a blank with the hooks. A very helpful young man watched me while I examined the rods. We discussed rod lengths and weights and the conversation drifted towards my ideal rod. He said that he had such a thing but for me to hold it would be “dangerous”.

He produced, from the depths of a store cupboard, the model I had rejected at Farlows. The rod was lighter than I remembered, the reel seat had been improved and the tip was slimmer. Perfection. A significant birthday loomed. No celebration had been arranged. No fishing holiday had been booked. After acquiring more rods than I need, I had vowed not to buy another. Should I exit the shop, credit card intact, doubling my regrets ? No.

That evening I celebrated with a curry and a couple of pints. Since then I have waggled the rod most days, fitted my favourite reel and planned a day fishing for grayling. The trout season in mid-March is too long to wait.

It had been dry and very cold for a few days, the Tamar at Greystone Bridge had dropped to 0.41m and the grayling would be hungry. I left the cottage at lunchtime and had to scrape the ice off the car. The bright blue cloudless sky and still air made it feel like Spring. Halfway there I realised that I had left my waders in the garage. Not a problem, I don’t like wading.

The water level, speed and colour were all perfect. I walked to the first croy, decided that the icy ‘Ladder of Death’ looked a bit too risky and walked further upstream to the other holding pool. I stood in shallow water, facing the sun, and flicked the Red Tag into the slack water beside the croy. The air was still and the line rolled out nicely. I searched the slack water on my side of the main flow and the bubble line downstream for about twenty yards.

I expected a grayling to take at any moment but for an hour, the only bend in the rod was the weight of the river. I had a break and watched the water. No flies hatched, no fish rose, nothing. Grayling gather in pods and won’t move far in cold turbulent water. When I find fish, takes come in rapid succession.

I persevered for another thirty minutes before wandering back to the first croy. I peered over the edge of the riverbank hoping that the near vertical ladder would look safe. It did not. A buzzard mewed once, it was a warning. I walked back across the field, through the sheep, warm in the sun and content that I hadn’t caught an out of season trout.