Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

Downsizing is a horrible business. The fishing tackle, watercolours and hundreds of books belonging to Robin Armstrong, the famous artist and author, had to be sorted and boxed for despatch to the local auction house. Funds were needed to pay for his care home. I volunteered to curate the books and fishing tackle. Thankfully, the valuable watercolours were not my responsibility.

Amongst the usual game fishing titles in Robin’s extensive library, was a battered, pocket size, black hardcover book with a missing spine and foxed pages The worthless old notebook caught my eye and I put it on the not-to-be-auctioned pile. Later, over a glass of wine, I carefully shuffled the loose boards, pages and inserts. The faded ink and pencil entries detailed the dressings of trout flies popular in the early 1900’s. Each dressing had an example of the fly attached to the opposite page. It was like John Veniard’s seminal ‘Fly Dressers’ Guide’ only better, I could see the actual flies. The book told a story about fly dressing evolution over more than half a century.

The flies were tiny, size 1 and 00 on the old scale, 14 and 16 in modern sizes. Fly tying vices were expensive and not widely available until well after WWII so the flies were probably tied in-hand. Inside the front board the inscription “Literature Notes for Senior Oxford Exam 1917” revealed the age of the notebook. According to the Bodleian library at Oxford, the exam was “for those who cannot afford …. a University education”.

The notebook enclosed a newspaper clipping about the late Peter George Frederick Seldon, a very keen angler, son of Ronald and Gertrude. An internet search revealed Peter’s obituary and some family details. The Seldon’s are a well-respected west Dartmoor family, Peter attended Blundells where his father was a master. I spent many months researching three generations of the family and eventually made contact with Gertrude’s granddaughter who told me that Gertrude, also a keen Dartmoor angler, had tied the flies. Delicate feminine fingers had dressed the tiny flies, hence their exquisite detail, she was a Devon version of the late Megan Boyd, King Charle’s preferred Scottish salmon fly dresser.

In 1917 Ronald went up to Oxford on a sport scholarship. The book was never used for its original purpose, writing poetry, football and cricket had priority. Ronald and ‘True met when he went to Tiverton to be a house master at Blundells. Granny ‘True was a much loved house matron. She used the book to compile a unique record of her fly dressings. The old flies and notes needed a safe home.

Gertrude recorded the particular requirements of individual customers, their patterns were listed alongside prices and quantities. “Two dozen Blue Uprights 4/-“, she ran a cottage industry. Some of her flies were tied direct to gut, later dressings were on eyed hooks with snecked points dating them to the 1950’s. Many of her flies were for Ronald who loved fishing on the Exe.

The handwriting and fly patterns change markedly towards the middle of the book. Dressings for Sweeney Todd and Church Fry, invented by Richard Walker and Bob Church in the early 1970’s, accompanied by crude sketches, were probably Peter’s work. I started fly tying over fifty years ago and because I couldn’t afford a vice, I dressed a spider, a buzzer and a black lure in-hand. I sent them to John Veniard who wrote back and encouraged me to continue, I subsequently bought one of his cheap vices which I still use. My shaking hands and poor eyesight prevent me from copying Gertrude’s work. Besides, modern barbless hooks made of fine wire and with overly complex bends don’t suit these old patterns.

Peter Seldon had his own water at Bedford Bridge on the River Walkham, my home river. Upon Peter’s death, his daughter quietly put the book aside to look at later, just as I had done. It turned out to be too technical for her and she passed it on to Robin Armstrong, a water bailiff for the River Walkham and Peter’s friend. I have returned the book to the Seldon family and the circle of ownership is now complete. The book resides with a volume of Ronald’s poems, written at Oxford but not in the book he intended. I am content to have read ‘True’s notes and seen the traditional flies. I hope my fishing diaries are as well preserved as Granny ‘Trues fly fishing book

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Last Saturday I fished in a gale, I should have spent the afternoon out of the wind at Little Bognor. The following day Storm Amy had petered out and I enjoyed a picnic at Great Springs. No fishing, just cake.

High pressure settled over the UK and a warm dry week ensured that the river would be at a good level. The river trout season in Sussex ends on 31 October and I wanted to have a couple of days on the river, it would be a long winter.

At Keepers Bridge the air was still and musty, rotting leaves and chestnut husks lay everywhere. There was no bird sound just a faint rumble mixed with a high pitched whine as an aircraft passed high overhead on its way across the Atlantic. Occasionally a pheasant called to warn its mates of my arrival.

The river was up a couple of inches and the water was a dark bottle green with a hint of cloudiness, not ideal. The streamer weed had turned brown and I could barely make out the weed beds. Nothing hatched. I searched the usual places downstream of the overhanging alder trees without a response before wandering up to the Sandy Pool and the Old Riffle. If a trout had moved for the fly, I couldn’t have seen it.

The following day I drove to Great Springs and had a pastie at the hut, while contemplating where to fish. I lounged on the bench beside the willow tree and explored the depths with a weighted nymph. Fish swam around in a leisurely way, carefully avoiding my flies. It was as if neither I nor the fish could make the effort. I persevered for an hour, changing depths and fly patterns without any response. I drove home wondering if I should have tried a black buzzer, the leisurely rise forms might have been roach.

On Sunday I went to Little Bognor. The fallen leaves had been blown into one corner of the lake by a gentle breeze. Nothing was hatching and the trout were not rising, just leaping occasionally. A long light leader and a black buzzer failed to raise any interest. A variety of emergers and nymphs were also ignored. A cruising trout darted away long before the fly line and leader landed, the sunlight had flashed on the rod. A couple of large trout were consistently rising through the tangled mat of leaves and twigs, snatching at dragon flies but there were no patches of open water in which to land a fly.

Three walkers with a yappy black spaniel and a drone shattered the peace and quiet. I drove home wondering if I should coat my rod with matt varnish.

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Monday 22 September

The wet and windy weather ended only a few days before the close of the Devon trout season. I planned to fish most days of the final week. The autumn equinox dawned with a frost and a bright clear sky. I was drawn to the River Tavy and by chance, it was my day on the rota for the Middle Beat.

I left the cottage at lunch time and was relieved to see that the water level was up only a couple of inches. There were a few leaves tumbling downstream, not enough to cause problems, just the occasional false alarm as the rod began to bend.

I started at the top of the beat and planned to fish the seams between the back eddies and the main current. I swapped a small nymph, then an unweighted fry imitation, for a heavy copper bodied nymph. I covered the deep runs and gaps between the rocks with no response. The next pool down usually produces a trout and true to form, as the fly drifted deep into the slack behind a boulder, the line tightened and a good fish splashed into the fast water. It splashed itself off the hook.

I walked downstream past Dawson’s rock, to a stretch of river I had never fished. The river looked beautiful, like an enormous, empty fish tank. I wandered back up the side of the valley, stopping frequently to rest and admire the view, disturbing recently released pheasants.

Tuesday 23 September

It was another typical autumn morning. I decided to fish the River Plym, jungle fishing at its best, a stark contrast to the Tavy. The long rod helped me roll cast from the hand and bow-and-arrow cast when the branches were really low. Only a couple of pools allowed an overhead cast. Rays of sunlight penetrated the tree cover, highlighting the deep pots and fissures in the bedrock. The water was clean and flowing swiftly. Each step bought back memories of trout hooked and lost. I was keen to fish from the drainage ditch above a boulder where I had caught a nice fish last season. Alas, a holly tree had been felled across the pool and the boulder had been washed downstream twenty yards by the winter spates. It had been another beautiful day beside the river without a trout, the dappled light and the sound of the river were sufficient.

Wednesday 24 September

I wanted to catch a trout to restore my confidence and motivate me for the difficult days on the rivers. Burrator had been kind to me earlier in the season and I hoped that an evening there would be productive. I hooked and landed a very nice trout first cast ! I felt the hook hold jerk, then the line screamed off the reel several times, sure sign of a foul hooked fish. It was about two pounds and hooked in the shoulder. I also caught a nice fish second cast. Pods of fish were cruising parallel to the shore, feeding on buzzers. I stalked them with a dry pheasant tail, the same pattern that I used last time. The fly starts dry, then settles a little to become an emerger and finally sinks. Most fish take within seconds of the fly landing if I position it correctly. I had to change fly after every fish and re-grease the leader. I drove home and celebrated with chocolate cake and tea.

Thursday 25 September

I decided to fish the Abbey Beat on the River Tavy rather than the Tamar. The tree cover on the Abbey Beat would provide shade on a bright sunny morning. The Tamar is quite open and would wait for a cloudy day. The faulty padlock guarding the beat frustrated me but I’d calmed down by the time the Defender clattered to a halt. The complete silence in the woods was spooky, no bird song, no wind in the tree tops, no spaniels or walkers.

The water had a slightly green tint and flowed swiftly over the stony river bed. I clambered down to the waters edge and worked a heavy fly through the nearside run without response. A big pool about the size of a tennis court looked inviting but it also refused to give up a trout. I walked downstream looking for fish but saw nothing except a dipper working under water. I became confused on the walk back and took the wrong track. Hot and tired, I decided to stop at the pub for a pint and lunch.

Friday 26 September

The Tamar was slightly above normal level and the water was cloudy. The descent to the first croy was too dangerous, no phone signal and a near vertical drop were not good odds. The top croy looked good. Trout were rising, snatching water boatman off the surface upstream of the rocks. I rose four, hooked and lost one. I turned to face downstream and ran a copper nymph down the main flow, then across into the back eddy and the slack. Nothing. I stopped at the Blacksmiths Arms at Lamerton for a pint and a pie, post fishing lunch could become a habit.

Monday 29 September

I couldn’t resist another visit to Burrator. I felt a bit guilty about fishing there, not on one of the rivers, because I can continue to fish at the reservoir until the end of December. Not guilty enough to stop me going. I started at tea time, the gentle breeze from the south west helped me drift a dry fly towards rising fish but it was awkward casting over my left shoulder.

My first fish was about 2lb, it was foul hooked, a repeat of my last visit, spooky. I caught a second trout a few minutes later, the fight was long and hard in the deep water. I wandered down the sandy beach keeping pace with the drifting line. The wind dropped and midges hatched, the rise lasted about thirty minutes. Numerous fish inspected my flies but didn’t take, I needed a buzzer imitation but I’d left that box of flies at home. When leaving the sandy beach, I fell over the old stone retaining wall and landed on rocks but a glass of wine at the cottage soothed the pain.

The sunset was spectacular, a fitting end to my Devon season.

It had been a dry summer, four heatwaves, each nearing thirty degrees, the hottest summer on record. During August I had waited in vain for rain to freshen the Dartmoor rivers. During my five hour drive to Sussex, it rained all the way. Typically bad timing. The heavy rain caused flash floods which devastated Mousehole and Rame. The farm lake had been dug and puddles of water lay on the clay but it would take many months to fill.

I arrived at Rotherbridge in time for a few hours fishing before the forecast heavy rain at 4:00pm. The water was coloured grey-green by road run-off and that part of the beat had already been heavily fished so I walked briskly to Keepers Bridge and fished a couple of places that I knew would hold trout. The near gale force, downstream, blustery wind made casting difficult. I was rewarded with one nip and a swirl. Eventually, the rain drove me back downstream and I had a few casts near the bridge before retreating to the car. More rain was forecast overnight.

The following day I got to the beat early. The river level hadn’t risen and the wind was manageable. I started with a black spider which was followed a couple of times but the fish swerved away at the last moment. I changed to a heavy copper pattern which resembles a minnow and immediately contacted a nice trout. It was about 2lbs and keen to get out of the landing net. I moved downstream a few yards and retrieved the fly faster than I usually do. The second trout grabbed the fly and headed for the bridge, it nearly got there, I only had a couple of feet of fly line left on the reel. No backing. It was over 2lbs and in good condition. I found another, slightly smaller fish on a sandy bottom near an overhanging alder. The wind got up and rain threatened, three trout was sufficient. I made a short visit to Little Bognor but I couldn’t concentrate and left after an hour.

It rained heavily all week and by Friday the puddles in the new lake at the farm had linked up enough to show the lakes eventual shape. Three boys called on Friday and asked if I would take them carp fishing. My cup of tea was immediately abandoned. Strong tackle and a suitable landing net were quickly assembled. We talked about monsters as we walked across the field. The red tipped float soon slid away and the fish put an alarming bend in the Chapman 500. It was a good fish, line was given. Two more carp, one for each junior member of the gang, were landed before it was tea time. It was an uplifting result. The boys were happy, memories had been made.

The lakes looked beautiful but the water temperature was nearly twenty degrees, too hot for trout. The river was high and muddy, Little Bognor was the obvious choice, the springs cool the water and the mature trees provide shelter from the wind. Fish were cruising around, sipping down buzzers trapped in the surface film. I tied on a tatty parachute pheasant tail which several fish rightly rejected. Hooking a tree required a new fly, a pristine, unused example which should have been my first choice. I crept along the bank, under the tree canopy and flicked the fly ten feet from the bank. It was immediately gulped down and after landing a few waterlogged branches, it was the turn of the trout.

I moved to open water and cast to fish moving down the centre of the lake. I was distracted, my instincts nagged me to cast to the left, no fish rose but a sixth sense told me there was a trout on my left. Eventually, I followed my instincts, the fly was taken within seconds of landing. How does that happen ? Did I register a sign subconsciously ? Was it a fluke ? Experience ? I don’t know but that magical moment was a sign to stop fishing and have some chocolate.

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The grass hadn’t grown, the trees were stressed and were shedding leaves. It felt like early autumn. In the full glare of the morning sun it was warm, a cool north east wind ruffled the surface of the river. Nothing hatched. The crystal clear water and bright sunshine revealed every stone and crevice in the bed rock even in the deepest pools. The trout had nowhere to hide. There were acorns the size of garden peas trapped in the back eddies.

A king fisher whizzed upstream followed by a young dipper. Pairs of wagtails flitted from rock to rock and buzzards circled over the tree tops like vultures. As I searched the beach for a rock to sit on, a heron saw me and disappeared around a bend in the river.

I set up my rod away from the waters edge, all the time looking for a rise. As usual the plan was to explore the deep water with a weighted nymph. I spent nearly an hour concentrating on my wind assisted casts, using the long rod to mend the line and hold the fly in midstream. I mapped the pools features as I moved slowly downstream. At the tail of the pool I turned over a few rocks looking for bugs, there were none.

I walked downstream, scattering recently released pheasant poults, wondering if prospecting with a nymph was the right method, if I should have waited until dusk and if the trout had all been eaten by cormorants.

After several trips to the rivers on Dartmoor without catching a trout, I needed a boost in confidence. Burrator reservoir was low and my favourite stretch of bank would be accessible. I was surprised at how low the water level had dropped.

I stood back from the water line and covered the deep drop-off with a weighted nymph. The take took me by surprise, the line twitched and started to slide away. I lifted into a trout which put up a spirited fight and I eventually slipped the barbless hook from it’s top lip without touching the fish. Success. Relief.

The wind eased and the trout began to rise. I switched to a dry fly, a parachute pheasant tail sat nicely on the surface and was soon taken. I was looking elsewhere. I concentrated and landed two more trout. The fish were cruising just under the surface, moving in straight lines, sipping down buzzers, the bay was full of empty shucks. I swapped the fly for a Quality Street sedge and waited for a trout to come into range.

Stalking passing trout, landing the fly a couple of yards along their path, produced three more fish, one of which revealed the curly section of the fly line near the reel arbour.

I was very satisfied with six fish in three hours and celebrated with a pint and a bowl of chips at the pub. Confidence had been restored.

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