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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