The end of another month. The close season loomed. I hadn’t been fishing for over three weeks. I had been imprisoned in the cottage while the roof was replaced. Scaffold poles, offcuts of batten and chips of slate had been taken away, peace had returned to the garden. Fishing plans were made over an evening glass of shiraz. A visit to a Devon river, an adventure at a secret lake and a long delayed trip to Sussex were crammed into a few short days. Tackle was sorted and checked. A cake was purchased. Nothing was overlooked.

A Devon River

The Defender protested at having been ignored for three weeks but eventually spluttered into life. An Italian tune-up along the main road cleaned the engine out. The river Tavy was slightly above normal summer level and had a pale amber tint courtesy of the recent showers. Sycamore leaves covered the path and Himalayan balsam seed pods exploded as I pushed past. It was very humid and the air was still. Ideal conditions.

The early morning mist turned to drizzle, then rain. I ignored the rain until my jacket was soaked before sheltering under a large oak tree. The long, wide glide mid-beat usually produces a take or two, sometimes a trout. Despite the perfect conditions and my best efforts, there was no response. I walked past the fast water and settled into the drainage ditch where I landed last seasons monster. The river was clear and I could see the faults in the bedrock where the trout hide. The back cast was tricky but I avoided the trees either side of me and drifted the nymph through the deeper water in midstream. I visited the still water above the weir but it looked barren. After a few token casts into the slack water below the rapids, I lost the nymph on a rock and called it a day. I was fishless, wet, hot and tired but I had enjoyed myself.

A Very Secret Lake

Weeks ago, while discussing the merits of split cane rods and Mitchell reels over a pint, I had passed the traditional angling test and was invited for a day’s fishing at a very special place. I had been sworn to secrecy. Guests are not invited back if they reveal the whereabouts of this little gem buried deep in a beech wood. I first read about the lake over thirty years ago, I read the spooky mysteries and classic angling tales many times. I had never contemplated fishing the lake, particularly as I didn’t know its location.

The tackle was prepared days in advance, I spooled new line onto the Hardy Altex. My first view of the woods reminded me of the magic trees at Fittleworth, ancient paths covered with crunchy beech mast and the musty smell of peat. I settled into a sheltered gap in the trees on the eastern side of the lake knowing that the late afternoon sun would see the fish drifting my way. The pristine woodland and the lake, unmolested by work parties, was unique. Few truly unspoilt places remain. I caught nothing until the fish arrived for afternoon tea. Four fish were fooled into taking and two landed. Unmarked, wild fish that rarely see a landing net. I had maintained my concentration for nearly twelve hours and left the lake exhausted but full of memories.

A Sussex River

I couldn’t remember my last visit to the Western Rother, I was out of touch with it’s moods and lacked confidence. The week of blanks recorded in the signing-in book didn’t help. It was very windy with no sign of rain. The grass had been mown short and was dry. I strung up the Hardy #4, the lithe Sage didn’t have the power to drag big brownies out of the weeds. The rod felt stiff and it took me a while to adjust but the muscle memory soon returned and the casts became more accurate.

There were no flies hatching and a deep sunk nymph was my only option. I concentrated on the shade beneath the overhanging alder trees and along the sides of the dense streamer weeds. I walked slowly downstream methodically prospecting all the likely fish holding places without any response from the trout. I paused above an alder where flood debris had gathered around the roots, diverting the current towards me. My first cast was good and as I started to lift the fly off the water I noticed a slight boil, a mere wave of a pectoral fin. I quickly cast above the lie and within seconds there was a violent take and a big trout dashed off downstream.

The fish headed towards the near bank and I bent into it before it reached the bushes. The trout felt securely hooked. The Sage #3 would not have had the backbone to hold the fish. Good decision. It was a nice clean fish, about two pounds, which deserved to have it’s portrait taken. It bolted out of the landing net none the worse for having seen me. It was the only trout caught on that beat for a week. My confidence had been boosted, it had been a very rewarding afternoon.

Little Bognor

The old estate lake, a stone lined mill pond, reminded me of the beech wood I had wandered through earlier in the week. The beech mast crunched underfoot and the mature trees kept the wind and sun off the water. A very relaxing place at which to introduce a young man to brown trout.

We had a plan. Stealth and good presentation would produce a trout or two. A small, black, neoprene buzzer was the fly of choice on a 3lb tippet. We crept along the bank and ambushed the trout in the margins as they drifted past about two feet below the surface. The first fish was hooked in the scissors and put up a spirited fight. We carefully nursed the fish in the landing net and it swam away confidently.

The second trout took a dry black gnat with a white neoprene wing and dashed along the bank tangling the line in the overhanging branches. After teasing it free, the battle continued in open water and the fish, about 2lbs, was released in the shallows. We left the lake and celebrated at a service station with warm sausage rolls and fizzy drinks. It seemed an appropriate way for a young man to mark his success.

I had crammed a lot of fishing into a few days. The varied scenery and fishing methods had maintained my concentration and boosted my hopes for the rest of the season.

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