While on holiday in Dorset in 2017, I bought Charles Ritz’s book “A Fly Fisher’s Life”. It had been in print from 1959 to 1977 and looked worthy of a place in my book cupboard.… More
Although I had walked the Beat several times I had never fished the wide, slow stretch of the Tavy. It was a long drive through the woods, down a deeply rutted and rocky forestry track but the Defender rattled along confidently. As I sorted through my fly boxes a Buzzard mewed high above the valley and a raven croaked from the top of a tall fir tree.
I wove my way through the waist high nettles and low hanging brush into the intense sunlight. As I sat beside a tree lined pool and threaded the fly line through the rod rings, a Trout took a fly from the surface only a few yards away. It was an encouraging sign. The water was crystal clear and a light upstream breeze ruffled the surface delaying the passage of debris and hatching insects.
Olives, midges and the occasional Mayfly provided a feast for the fish and noisy, splashy rises every few minutes revealed their position. Usually along the far tree line or in midstream, way beyond my casting range. The slow, deep water was littered with the sunken remains of mature trees, washed downstream by the winter spates. It was impossible to wade and my backcast was restricted but I managed to work the big pool with a heavily weighted nymph. The fish were not impressed and gradually the rises petered out.
I wandered downstream, stopping occasionally to watch the water and to explore some of the holding pools. The sun was sinking but it was too bright for both me and the fish. I walked back along the path and stood under an old Oak close to the waters edge. A Trout was rising frequently below an overhanging Willow bush, gentle, sipping rises for either emerging Mayflies or buzzers. I circled around, using the long grass as cover, to position myself just below the bush. A parachute Pheasant Tail was a good choice of fly but I missed the take. I rested the fish which resumed feeding but it wouldn’t respond and eventually went down.
I moved upstream, checking the pools and faster water. It was too bright, I should have waited a couple of hours longer but as usual, my impatience had lead to an early start. An electric blue Kingfisher whizzed past only a foot off the water and disappeared into the tree tunnel. I returned to the feeding Trout and gave it the choice of a tiny midge imitation and a Mayfly to no avail. A clumsy cast ended my chances and I fought my way back to the Defender through the undergrowth.
It had been a demanding trip. The sun was too bright and the fish were sheltering out of reach. I will return late one evening and try again.
After yesterdays jungle fishing on the Plym I fancied an evening in the open air on a bigger river. The weather had been Mediterranean all day and the village was deserted, everyone had gone to the beach. The Defender crept down the rocky track in 1st gear and emerged from the trees beside the river. The engine died in a clatter and peace descended on the valley. There were no noisy kids or barbeques, I had the Beat to myself.
Clouds of Olive Spinners filled the air and midges buzzed around my head. The sound of rushing water encouraged me to set up my rod quickly but I paused to check for missed rings. I tied a heavy tippet to the new leader and walked upstream to a long wide riffle where I could have a few practice casts and check the weight of my fly.
I could see every rock on the riverbed and the crests of the broken water were pristine white, perfect conditions if I kept a low profile. I concentrated on the long run below a deep cauldron of foaming water convinced that a Trout lived somewhere in the fifty yard stretch. Cast, mend, hang and step carefully along the marginal sand. Nothing. A Sea Trout jumped in the flat water on the far side of the current and raised my expectations. It didn’t react to my carefully presented flies.
I found some slack water off a spit of granite. The rock was hard but warm and as I fidgeted about, trying to get comfortable, a smolt took the GRHE nymph. I released the plump little fish into the shallows and it arrowed back into deep water none the worse for visiting me.
The Hut Pool deserved my full attention. I used the ridges of granite to avoid sky-lining and waited for a sign. An insignificant rise in the back eddy on my left was repeated several times. A feeding fish was well within casting range. I presented a parachute Pheasant Tail, a good imitation of an Olive Spinner, to the satisfaction of the Trout which seized it immediately. It was a feisty little brownie. I was pleased to have caught fish on both a nymph and a dry fly.
On previous trips I hadn’t ventured further downstream to Major Kenneth Dawson’s rock, weariness from the long walk had usually kicked in. Thanks to ‘Land-River’ I was still strong, I climbed the gate and dropped down to water level along a culvert and stood where, over a hundred years ago, the Major is said to have caught many fish. I fished a weighted, flashy fly down and across and hooked a fish but it summersaulted off the barbless hook. The light was failing and I’d had enough. The Defender rattled back up the track which had become even more deeply rutted by the heavy rain a couple of weeks ago.
The fine weather is coming to an end, am I fit enough to fish the high moor?
The weather was perfect; warm, overcast and a gentle breeze. How could I continue with chores when the Bank Holiday crowds had dispersed and the fish were waiting? I had planned on fishing my favourite Tavy pools but I realised that I had misread the rota. I eased the Defender out of the garage and headed south towards the Plym. A column of sunburnt 42 Commando Royal Marines marched back into barracks as I dropped down into the deep river valley and found a parking space by the bridge. The river looked beautiful, a few inches up with a hint of colour.
The water temperature was 14 degrees and upwinged flies were everywhere so I started in a fast run with a dry fly. The line curled out nicely and the fly rode the current convincingly back downstream towards me. The likely holding places, crevices in the bedrock and behind stones, failed to hold anything and I moved upstream to the first deep pool. As I approached quietly through the trees, a Sea Trout leapt and noisily splashed back into the water. I swapped the dry fly for a Teal, Blue and Silver and slid down the rocks at the head of the pool on my backside. The fast broken water and rock ledges hid me from the spooky fish and as I rolled out the first cast I had high hopes of a take. I worked the pool methodically, gradually extending line without a response. I’d try again in a couple of hours.
The bluebells were a distraction as I made my upstream along the riverside path. A combination of anglers, deer and badgers had crushed the stems and leaves which enhanced the flowery perfume. I sat beside a fallen tree at the head of a long pool where a culvert joined the main river on the far bank. The eddy had produced fish for me and I swapped the fly for a weighted nymph which would drop into the deeper water quickly. No bead, just a few turns of lead wire. As I was about to cast a lone Mayfly fluttered into the air and passed close over my head into the trees behind me. I was surprised to see a Mayfly on an acid moorland spate river, it lifted my spirits.
After exploring the eddy and the main pool, I rose from behind the ferns and turned to leave just as a good Trout rose close to the near bank. It was mocking my efforts, telling me that I should have used a dry fly, not a nymph. I fished the first pool again with a heavier fly but I had a feeling that the Sea Trout had seen me and retired to the safety of the tree roots.
It had been a lovely walk, I hadn’t seen anyone and fishing was a bonus. My tactics had been wrong, I would return late one evening with just a box of dry flies.
It hadn’t rained for 24 hours and the forecast for the bank holiday was good. The river was still coloured and wouldn’t be fishable until after I returned to Devon. I was drawn to Little Bognor where the springs run clear and the trees provide shelter. I listened to Elgar’s cello concerto during the journey, it was relaxing and reminded me of the magic trees and the gnomes. I wondered if Rex Vicat Cole’s Spanish Chestnut tree had been toppled by the recent gales. I was saddened to see that Edward gnome had been buried under a concrete and steel apron where the stream ran under the road. VC’s long dead chestnut tree had shed a few branches but was still embedded in the top of the ancient wall.
I stretched the Rio line and renewed the 5lb tippet before settling down on the mossy bank. The ferns were too short to hide me from the Trout cruising the margins but I sat still and soon fish were patrolling within a yard of my rod tip. Midges were skittering all over the lake surface and a black Neoprene buzzer was the obvious choice. I lowered the buzzer into the water and watched the tippet. The fly sunk slowly but several casts later I’d had no response. A fish rose to my left under a branch and I quickly flicked the buzzer into the widening ripples. It had only been in the water a couple of seconds when the leader tightened and the Trout was hooked.
It was an immaculate, fin-perfect wild Trout about a pound in weight which I unhooked in the landing net and released in the shallows. The buzzer was a bit chewed but it was the only one in my box, I must tie some more. I flicked the buzzer under the branches and watched the tippet as it sunk, inch-by-inch, through the surface film. Fish started to rise all over the lake, taking midges and sedges amongst the leaf debris. I swapped to a parachute Pheasant Tail and that was gulped down as soon as it settled gently on the surface. It was a bigger fish which I also released in the shallows.
The Trout moved down the lake, sheltering under the overhanging branches and continued to take surface flies in the margin. I crept quietly along the bank, using the tree trunks to avoid being sky-lined. I crawled onto the mossy hump and with a ‘bow and arrow’ cast dropped the dry fly no more than a yard from the waters edge. A good fish swirled on my left and I risked a quick overhead flick, avoiding the top of a holly bush, to land the fly a rod length away. Again, as the fly settled on the surface, it was confidently taken. The Trout went on a long run into the centre of the lake and then doubled back seeking refuge in the tree roots. I was confident of the tippet and hook hold. The rod bent into a frightening arc as I forced the fish out into deeper water. A four pounder rolled into the landing net, was gently unhooked, rested and released without fuss. Not my biggest brownie from the lake but a close second.
I thought my final fish would be hooked under the centuries old chestnut tree. I sat behind a tree trunk some ten feet above the water level and watched the fish patrol, occasionally swirling at buzzers. After casting into most of the bushes both behind and infront of me, I decided to explore more open water.
I sat behind a clump of rushes and observed a group of small fish greedily feeding on buzzers, they were so close I could have poked them with my rod tip. Better fish were taking sedges under the trees and I decided to focus on them. The cast was tricky. The branches slanted at various angles and different heights. The stiff hackles on the fly would help it bounce off the leaves and the wind was favourable, from over my left shoulder. I dropped the fly within a yard of a feeding fish which took and dashed out into the lake away from danger. After returning my fourth fish I decided to pack up but the ‘one more cast’ syndrome kicked in.
Trout were slashing at adult midges and I couldn’t resist the opportunity, it would be at least a couple of weeks before I could return. The first cast with a parachute midge connected with another spirited brownie which I bullied into the net and released.
It had been apparent all afternoon that accurately presenting a fly to a rising fish, gave little time for the Trout to examine the fly and tippet. The heavy tippet was visible in the dusty surface film but the ultra shy brownies were triggered to respond by the flies landing so close to them. As I drove home I thought about Elgar Day on 15 June and hoped that the fishing would be as good.
Luffs is an old Estate lake that has been a bit of a challenge for me. I’d lost some monsters there and I’m never confident of catching. Plan B was just a short walk away through the woods but I resolved to persevere with Luffs.
The weather forecast was for showers all afternoon but heavy rain at 7:00pm, it would be another Barbour day. The lake looked lovely, from the north bank I could see fish rising down the centre of the lake and in the margins along the south side. The west wind blew from the dam straight down the lake, easy casting. There were no flies hatching and very few birds feeding which I though was strange. I started with a Mayfly nymph, exploring the deep water along the dam but had no takes. I swapped to a weighted, dark GRHE but although it looked very realistic, I thought it was too dark to be seen easily in the depths. I changed to a paler fly but that was ignored. I could see dark shadows passing about two feet down so I changed to an unweighted fly. Nothing.
The sun broke through the clouds and the wind dropped, suddenly there were fish swirling everywhere but I couldn’t see anything hatching, very odd. I dropped a size 14 Partridge hackled nymph close to a rising fish, there was a tremendous wrench on the rod and the hook straightened. I’d chosen a stronger Stroft GTM tippet but the hook was too fine, I felt that my Luff’s gremlins had struck again. It was a good fish. I walked around the lake and cast to a fish rising close to a Willow tree but it disappeared. I wanted to continue up the lake towards the shallows but the Trout started to rise along the dam so I returned. After several fly changes I connected with a fish and was relieved to see it cross the front of the landing net. It fought hard and took a while to revive, the rising fish had departed.
I walked back to the car and was about to leave when the wind died, the sun shone and the Trout started to feed again. I watched the water but I couldn’t see anything on the surface. I thought the fish were probably taking buzzers as they emerged. I tied on a size 14 black fly with a white ethafoam wing which would float for ages. First cast to a rising fish produced a confident head-and-tail take and another fish in the landing net.
A few minutes later I anticipated the rise of a Trout on my left and dropped the fly into undisturbed water. As soon as the fly touched down a fish rose and took with a gulp. My premonition had been rewarded. It might have been experience, sixth sense or water craft. A fish had been rising in that area all afternoon and subconscious recall had kicked in.
It was 6:30pm and dark clouds were gathering to the west, I could see a violent storm approaching. Great sheets of rain were slanting down several miles away over the Rother valley, it was a good time to leave. I drove home in hail and sleet, very slowly along the country lanes. A generous glass of Lagavulin in a comfy chair was a perfect end to the day. The Luff’s gremlins had been banished.