I had an idea. I would fish the rivers included in the club’s name, the Tavy Walkham and Plym, in that order.

River Tavy

I went to the Tavy late in the afternoon when the shadow thrown by the trees on the west bank, extended right across the river.

I experimented with a very long, fine leader and worked the first pool carefully with a black dry fly. There were only a few upwing flies hatching and no trout rising so I switched to a nymph and started again at the top of the pool. I had a little nip on the fly but failed to connect.

Further downstream I flicked the nymph across the main current to land just behind a boulder. As the fly swung round, through the slack water, there was another nip at the fly. I missed again.

I paddled along a spit of small rocks and let the fly swing slowly round in the glide near the far bank. The line felt heavy and I brought a plump little trout to hand. It flicked itself off the hook as I reached down to release it, job done.

River Walkham

The weather had changed, temperatures in the high twenties were forecast. The sky was devoid of clouds. The deep valley and tall trees along the Walkham would provide shade and the pristine woodland, behind locked gates, was enough to justify my walk with a rod.

At lunchtime it was very hot, nearly thirty degrees. A buzzard mewed until it saw me through the tree canopy, then it floated away. A cuckoo called from high up on the valley side. Clouds of midges buzzed just above the surface of the water. The tall trees provided shade and the downstream breeze helped cool me down. It rippled the water, hiding me from the trout. The trees shed leaf bud scale everywhere which formed orange mats covering the marginal rocks.

Upstream of the weir, in the slack, crystal clear water, trout were rising consistently. I started with a nymph through the deep water beside the rock wall. Upstream, I crawled under the tree canopy and drifted a dry fly along a glide under the far bank. The trout stopped rising.

As I walked downstream, beside the shallow leat, several trout dashed into cover. Very spooky fish, they saw me from twenty yards away. I climbed over fallen trees and weaved the long rod through low hanging branches until the rock face barred my way. The deep pool inspired confidence but there was no response from the trout. It was a long hot walk back to the gate. The padlock-which-doesn’t-work tested my patience. I must put a bottle of SWW emergency water in the Defender.

River Plym

It was bank holiday weekend and the weather was good, not the best conditions for fishing. I started early in the morning, too early for dog walkers. I decided to keep away from the tourist hotspots and to visit a beat that I had never fished. I heard the river crashing through the rocks long before I saw the white water. The level was slightly above normal and the water was crystal clear. The sandy bottom and pebbles shone in the shafts of light piercing the tree canopy. No excuses.

Trout were rising for midges and I chose a small, pale Tups to start with. I flicked it upstream into a glide and after a few casts, a small trout took the fly and escaped before I could get the slack line under control. I worked my way upstream and missed a couple of splashy takes.

I sat in a drainage ditch above a big rock and searched the deep scour with a nymph. A very positive take took me by surprise, the trout took line off the reel and battled in the deep, fast water. I released the fish and it dived back under the rock. We will meet again if it stays put.

I walked upstream until the path was blocked by a fallen tree, deep water and a rock wall. I was tired, hot and dehydrated. Time to wander back to the Defender. The fishing had been challenging. The beauty of dappled sunlight on the water, a nice trout and partial success with a dry fly warranted a celebration cup of tea and a big chunk of fruit cake.

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