Last Saturday I fished in a gale, I should have spent the afternoon out of the wind at Little Bognor. The following day Storm Amy had petered out and I enjoyed a picnic at Great Springs. No fishing, just cake.

High pressure settled over the UK and a warm dry week ensured that the river would be at a good level. The river trout season in Sussex ends on 31 October and I wanted to have a couple of days on the river, it would be a long winter.

At Keepers Bridge the air was still and musty, rotting leaves and chestnut husks lay everywhere. There was no bird sound just a faint rumble mixed with a high pitched whine as an aircraft passed high overhead on its way across the Atlantic. Occasionally a pheasant called to warn its mates of my arrival.

The river was up a couple of inches and the water was a dark bottle green with a hint of cloudiness, not ideal. The streamer weed had turned brown and I could barely make out the weed beds. Nothing hatched. I searched the usual places downstream of the overhanging alder trees without a response before wandering up to the Sandy Pool and the Old Riffle. If a trout had moved for the fly, I couldn’t have seen it.

The following day I drove to Great Springs and had a pastie at the hut, while contemplating where to fish. I lounged on the bench beside the willow tree and explored the depths with a weighted nymph. Fish swam around in a leisurely way, carefully avoiding my flies. It was as if neither I nor the fish could make the effort. I persevered for an hour, changing depths and fly patterns without any response. I drove home wondering if I should have tried a black buzzer, the leisurely rise forms might have been roach.

On Sunday I went to Little Bognor. The fallen leaves had been blown into one corner of the lake by a gentle breeze. Nothing was hatching and the trout were not rising, just leaping occasionally. A long light leader and a black buzzer failed to raise any interest. A variety of emergers and nymphs were also ignored. A cruising trout darted away long before the fly line and leader landed, the sunlight had flashed on the rod. A couple of large trout were consistently rising through the tangled mat of leaves and twigs, snatching at dragon flies but there were no patches of open water in which to land a fly.

Three walkers with a yappy black spaniel and a drone shattered the peace and quiet. I drove home wondering if I should coat my rod with matt varnish.

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