Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

A stiff easterly breeze, bright sunshine and a cloudless sky were not ideal weather conditions for trout fishing. I woke up early to see the boys off to school and to feed my furry friend. He stayed at home guarding the house against pesky squirrels.

I left the house and drove south towards Petworth through the school run traffic. I wanted to catch a trout using a mayfly. The start of the mayfly season is triggered mainly by the length of daylight hours. The earliest I had seen mayfly at the lakes was 30 April, St Georges Day was a bit early.

Little Springs was deserted and the trout were cruising in the shadows cast by the oak and lime trees along the east bank. They were gently sipping down the flies, occasionally head and tailing for buzzers. I fed the fly line through the many rings on the #3 10′ 6″ Sage ESN and checked that I hadn’t missed any or twisted the Rio line around the rod. The rod and line are a perfect match although not designed for my style of fishing.

I started with a teal winged mayfly, dropped ahead of cruising fish. It was carefully inspected and rejected by several fish. I changed to a French partridge pattern, that was also rejected. There were lots of Alder flies fluttering in the breeze but few landed in the water. It occurred to me that the fish might be focusing on buzzers but I persevered with a selection of mayflies.

I changed the tippet to 3lb and tied on a size 14 mayfly. Aiming high and ahead of a cruising fish, it fluttered down slowly and produced a positive take. The trout became airborne before running down the lake. It was in fin perfect condition and the fly dropped out of its jaw in the landing net, a perfect release. Job done. As the sun rose, the tree shadows faded and the fish retreated to the deeper water. I followed and missed a few more takes before heading back to the car for breakfast and a Red Bull, my substitute for coffee.

I sat on the bench at Great Springs, flicked a parachute pheasant tail into the wind and watched for a swirl. Tree debris, bud scales and petals, were being blown across the lake towards me and the trout were testing them to see if they were edible. The fish were only a few feet from the bank and I eventually hooked one which wriggled free after a few seconds. Never mind.

The wind and hot sun had exhausted me and I drove away from the lakes in a trance. It was twenty minutes before I realised that I was heading in the wrong direction. I could have caught a few more fish if I had switched to a buzzer but I had achieved my objective and all was well.

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Recent visits to the Devon rivers and Sussex lakes are blurred in my memory. The contrast between the rivers and the lakes was stark as was the fishing but I don’t recall the details.

Devon – I walked the Abbey Beat and admired the water, I didn’t bother with a rod. The walk on the high moor beside the Cad was uplifting. I should have taken a rod.

The Plym was in prime condition, up a few inches and clear water. I took a rod. I anticipated a trout or two but nothing bothered my fly.

The spring scenery was a distraction, the water was cold and nothing hatched.

Large rocks had moved, trees had fallen and been washed into the margins by the winter spates. I saw no fish in the crystal clear water, it was too early in the season.

Sussex – I went to the lakes at Lower Bognor in the knowledge that the deep valley and mature trees would keep the worst of the north wind off the water. The lakes were slightly coloured and there were no signs of trout. I had made up my mind how I was going to fish on the drive south. A single size 14 black buzzer, slow sinking on a light tippet. It seemed overly optimistic to drift such a small insignificant fly across the ruffled lake surface. Surely the fly could not be easily seen.

I missed the first take, I was not concentrating. Over the course of two hours I missed a few takes, connected with four trout and landed three. I was cold and tired and three fish was a good result in poor conditions.

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I wanted to visit my favourite beats to admire the Spring scenery and to checkout the changes made to the rivers by the winter spates, a trout would be a bonus.

The Tavy, the Plym and the Walkham are magnificent at this time of year but the water is cold and the trout are not very active. I took a rod with me as justification for my river walks.

Tuesday – the Tavy Middle Beat looked spectacular and I sat in the sunshine on a rock at the top of the Beat watching the water hurry past. The level was dropping and it was fishable. I ignored my usual box of GRHE nymphs and tied on a small Sweeney Todd left over from reservoir fishing in the mid 1970s.

I worked the pool down and caught a sea trout smolt from the bottom of the pool where the tail water squeezed through a gap. It had an old peck mark on its flank which had healed nicely and I released it, without handling, to continue on its way to Plymouth Sound. I walked downstream and fished a couple of runs but nothing was interested and I spent most of the time taking photos.

Wednesday – The Plym looked equally magnificent and the sandbanks were pristine, no footprints or paw marks, the Beat had not been visited since the end of last season. It was warm and bright. The water was a bit too high but the riffles were deeper and longer which gave me confidence. I worked a black and red spider through the deep pool under the bridge and was surprised not to get a take. I made my way slowly downstream mesmerised by the water occasionally dipping a nymph into the slack water. I ended my walk without a fish but I was happy to spend half an hour sitting on a rock beside the river watching for signs.

Thursday – The broken gate had been repaired and the padlock was new. The track down to the river had no tyre tracks and all was quiet. The Walkham was in perfect condition. One more day without rain had allowed the water level to drop and the breeze ruffled the surface of the bigger pools. No excuses.

I dropped a nymph over the stone wall where a trout usually hides but the leader failed to straighten. The long wide pool above the weir also failed to surrender a trout. I saw several trout in the leat which was running fast and clear but they saw me first.

I found a seat among the roots of an old oak tree and watched the water glide over the bedrock. Downstream the sun shone through the tree canopy unfiltered by leaves and cast rays of light on the pool. It seemed a shame to mar the view with a rod and fly line but I had a few casts anyway. I fought my way through the wood and sat beside a tree looking upstream at the rock wall and the pool beside it. I was tired. The climb out of the valley was tough going, I didn’t need to wear two shirts, a jumper and a Barbour jacket. It had been the hottest day of the year.

Friday – I attended Robin Armstrong’s funeral and chatted to many of his friends, I’m sure Robin would have wanted me to go fishing after the wake but the beer and endless supply of pasties made me sleepy.

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After two months of constant rain, a high pressure system dominated England and early March was warm and dry. Dartmoor had four times the average annual rainfall and was saturated. Last spring was wet but three consecutive thirty degree heatwaves ruined the summer trout fishing on Dartmoor. Hot dry summers and warm wet winters are symptoms of global warming.

I was saddened to learn of the death of Robin Armstrong on 20 February as a result of poor health following a serious car crash from which he never fully recovered. He was a prolific wildlife artist, author and fisherman. Dennis Watkins-Pitchford was Robin’s favourite author and the preface to most of BB’s books, taken from a gravestone in Yorkshire, is particularly appropriate.

“The wonder of the world. The beauty and the power. The shapes of things, their colours, light and shades. These I saw, look ye also while life lasts.” 

I returned to Surrey for he start of the Leconfield season. The farm lake is full and lots of buzzers are hatching. The fish are feeding in the margins. Landscaping and planting will start when the ground has dried out.

The Leconfield AGM was well attended and a five year plan for the restoration of the River Rother was revealed. The river will be returned to its pre eighteenth century state, before it was straightened and deepened to allow navigation. The plan is very ambitious.

On Saturday I arrived early and chatted with a few members. The lakes were busy and I wandered around with a cup of tea taking action photos. I intended to fish with a favourite split cane rod in Robin Armstrong’s memory. The water was coloured and I started with a weighted black spider. I felt rusty and it took a while for the muscle memory to return during which time I missed a few takes and lost a couple of fish. I blamed the century old split cane. Most members disappeared mid-afternoon to watch the rugby at a local pub and I wandered around the lakes until I found a pod of trout. I landed three fish from Little Springs on a red and black spider, fished deep and close to the marginal weed. Rain was forecast and I left the estate happy to have caught a few trout in glorious spring sunshine. England lost to France.

On Sunday the weather made it impossible to give my grandson a casting lesson. I sought shelter in the woods at Little Bognor. The lakes were deserted, it was Mother’s day and the pubs were busy. The cold blustery wind from the southwest blew the line around. Presentation was difficult and after snagging several holly bushes, I moved to the open bank. A fish repeatedly followed my fly to the surface as I hung the spider at the end of the cast. It eventually took the fly. I caught a second brownie and left Fittleworth to get diesel and lunch.

The lakes at Stag Park were also deserted and I chose to fish at Luffs. A good fish took the fly on the first wind assisted cast. Thirty minutes later another trout took the fly seconds after it landed. I concluded that the trout could only see the fly in the coloured water by chance and decided to pack up, it was not very interesting fishing. It had been a weekend of stark contrasts, the weather had changed, busy Saturday deserted Sunday, warm then cold. However, all of the takes had been to the same black and red spider. I must tie some more.

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I found a fly rod at our local market. It was caked in crazed, orange yacht varnish. It was straight but needed a full restoration. I was reluctant to walk away. I knocked the asking price down a bit and totted up the cost of new fittings as I drove home.

The number on the reel fitting revealed that the 9’ 6” Hardy Perfection was made in 1913 when the country was on the brink of WWI, George V was on the throne and Mr Asquith was Prime Minister. The Morris Oxford first went on sale that year and Arsenal moved to Highbury.

The agate butt and tip ring were mounted in silver and were undamaged, the intermediate drop down rings were rusty and had to be replaced. Although the cane was straight, it was poor quality and badly built. The nodes were close together and had been planed not hot pressed. Some glue lines were obvious and the top section had a bulge near the tip.

The reel fitting was of a strange construction and the ferrule had a seam along its length. The reel fitting and ferrule had been fashioned out of sheet metal, rolled into a tube and the seams soldered together. The 1955 Hardy catalogue describes the rod, the specification of which had changed since 1913.

The rod had been built during the transition from greenheart to split cane and despite its problems, deserved to be refurbished and used to catch a few trout from the Dartmoor streams.

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