Author: Nigel Rainton

I wanted to visit my favourite beats to admire the Spring scenery and to checkout the changes made to the rivers by the winter spates, a trout would be a bonus.

The Tavy, the Plym and the Walkham are magnificent at this time of year but the water is cold and the trout are not very active. I took a rod with me as justification for my river walks.

Tuesday – the Tavy Middle Beat looked spectacular and I sat in the sunshine on a rock at the top of the Beat watching the water hurry past. The level was dropping and it was fishable. I ignored my usual box of GRHE nymphs and tied on a small Sweeney Todd left over from reservoir fishing in the mid 1970s.

I worked the pool down and caught a sea trout smolt from the bottom of the pool where the tail water squeezed through a gap. It had an old peck mark on its flank which had healed nicely and I released it, without handling, to continue on its way to Plymouth Sound. I walked downstream and fished a couple of runs but nothing was interested and I spent most of the time taking photos.

Wednesday – The Plym looked equally magnificent and the sandbanks were pristine, no footprints or paw marks, the Beat had not been visited since the end of last season. It was warm and bright. The water was a bit too high but the riffles were deeper and longer which gave me confidence. I worked a black and red spider through the deep pool under the bridge and was surprised not to get a take. I made my way slowly downstream mesmerised by the water occasionally dipping a nymph into the slack water. I ended my walk without a fish but I was happy to spend half an hour sitting on a rock beside the river watching for signs.

Thursday – The broken gate had been repaired and the padlock was new. The track down to the river had no tyre tracks and all was quiet. The Walkham was in perfect condition. One more day without rain had allowed the water level to drop and the breeze ruffled the surface of the bigger pools. No excuses.

I dropped a nymph over the stone wall where a trout usually hides but the leader failed to straighten. The long wide pool above the weir also failed to surrender a trout. I saw several trout in the leat which was running fast and clear but they saw me first.

I found a seat among the roots of an old oak tree and watched the water glide over the bedrock. Downstream the sun shone through the tree canopy unfiltered by leaves and cast rays of light on the pool. It seemed a shame to mar the view with a rod and fly line but I had a few casts anyway. I fought my way through the wood and sat beside a tree looking upstream at the rock wall and the pool beside it. I was tired. The climb out of the valley was tough going, I didn’t need to wear two shirts, a jumper and a Barbour jacket. It had been the hottest day of the year.

Friday – I attended Robin Armstrong’s funeral and chatted to many of his friends, I’m sure Robin would have wanted me to go fishing after the wake but the beer and endless supply of pasties made me sleepy.

. . . – – – . . .

After two months of constant rain, a high pressure system dominated England and early March was warm and dry. Dartmoor had four times the average annual rainfall and was saturated. Last spring was wet but three consecutive thirty degree heatwaves ruined the summer trout fishing on Dartmoor. Hot dry summers and warm wet winters are symptoms of global warming.

I was saddened to learn of the death of Robin Armstrong on 20 February as a result of poor health following a serious car crash from which he never fully recovered. He was a prolific wildlife artist, author and fisherman. Dennis Watkins-Pitchford was Robin’s favourite author and the preface to most of BB’s books, taken from a gravestone in Yorkshire, is particularly appropriate.

“The wonder of the world. The beauty and the power. The shapes of things, their colours, light and shades. These I saw, look ye also while life lasts.” 

I returned to Surrey for he start of the Leconfield season. The farm lake is full and lots of buzzers are hatching. The fish are feeding in the margins. Landscaping and planting will start when the ground has dried out.

The Leconfield AGM was well attended and a five year plan for the restoration of the River Rother was revealed. The river will be returned to its pre eighteenth century state, before it was straightened and deepened to allow navigation. The plan is very ambitious.

On Saturday I arrived early and chatted with a few members. The lakes were busy and I wandered around with a cup of tea taking action photos. I intended to fish with a favourite split cane rod in Robin Armstrong’s memory. The water was coloured and I started with a weighted black spider. I felt rusty and it took a while for the muscle memory to return during which time I missed a few takes and lost a couple of fish. I blamed the century old split cane. Most members disappeared mid-afternoon to watch the rugby at a local pub and I wandered around the lakes until I found a pod of trout. I landed three fish from Little Springs on a red and black spider, fished deep and close to the marginal weed. Rain was forecast and I left the estate happy to have caught a few trout in glorious spring sunshine. England lost to France.

On Sunday the weather made it impossible to give my grandson a casting lesson. I sought shelter in the woods at Little Bognor. The lakes were deserted, it was Mother’s day and the pubs were busy. The cold blustery wind from the southwest blew the line around. Presentation was difficult and after snagging several holly bushes, I moved to the open bank. A fish repeatedly followed my fly to the surface as I hung the spider at the end of the cast. It eventually took the fly. I caught a second brownie and left Fittleworth to get diesel and lunch.

The lakes at Stag Park were also deserted and I chose to fish at Luffs. A good fish took the fly on the first wind assisted cast. Thirty minutes later another trout took the fly seconds after it landed. I concluded that the trout could only see the fly in the coloured water by chance and decided to pack up, it was not very interesting fishing. It had been a weekend of stark contrasts, the weather had changed, busy Saturday deserted Sunday, warm then cold. However, all of the takes had been to the same black and red spider. I must tie some more.

. . . – – – . . .

I found a fly rod at our local market. It was caked in crazed, orange yacht varnish. It was straight but needed a full restoration. I was reluctant to walk away. I knocked the asking price down a bit and totted up the cost of new fittings as I drove home.

The number on the reel fitting revealed that the 9’ 6” Hardy Perfection was made in 1913 when the country was on the brink of WWI, George V was on the throne and Mr Asquith was Prime Minister. The Morris Oxford first went on sale that year and Arsenal moved to Highbury.

The agate butt and tip ring were mounted in silver and were undamaged, the intermediate drop down rings were rusty and had to be replaced. Although the cane was straight, it was poor quality and badly built. The nodes were close together and had been planed not hot pressed. Some glue lines were obvious and the top section had a bulge near the tip.

The reel fitting was of a strange construction and the ferrule had a seam along its length. The reel fitting and ferrule had been fashioned out of sheet metal, rolled into a tube and the seams soldered together. The 1955 Hardy catalogue describes the rod, the specification of which had changed since 1913.

The rod had been built during the transition from greenheart to split cane and despite its problems, deserved to be refurbished and used to catch a few trout from the Dartmoor streams.

. . . – – – . . .

I don’t like modern fly fishing values. Since I started fly fishing for trout over 50 years ago, it has evolved from a niche country sport into a global industry. Trout fishing is following the same path that carp anglers trod in the 70s and 80s. It’s not a pretty sight. Globalisation, rigs, tactics and ‘comps’ are definitely not for me, I prefer some of the values of previous generations.

Throughout my career I embraced leading edge technology. Modern plastic lines and carbon fibre rods are wonderful, the uses to which they are put, not so much.

I tried a silk line, it was not fit for purpose. It’s in a drawer somewhere. I don’t use horsehair or soak gut. I’m not a fundamentalist or an elitist. I sometimes use split cane rods, not for nostalgia, just the enjoyment of an appropriate and perfectly crafted tool.

I only use a simple click and pawl reel with no clutch or gears and an exposed rim to control the line. I have one type of fly line, a weight forward floater. I haven’t got a clue what ‘skagit’ means, whatever it is, I don’t want one.

I usually fish alone. I help a guest or youngster occasionally but leave my rod in the car, I can’t multi task. I’ve never bought a fly from a shop, I tied my own flies long before learning to cast a fly line. I’ve never used flies incorporating beads; blobs and squirmy wormies are the fly fishing equivalent of boilies, the modern default bait for carp.

I regard wading as cheating and wonder about the impact of anglers boots on a well-trodden river bed, particularly in the winter when redds are being cut. I only wear thigh waders to protect my knees when crawling over gravel and to keep ticks off my legs. Besides, mine leak. Fly fishing for grayling in the winter is sometimes used as an excuse to avoid the trout close season, catching two grayling and ten out of season trout is not acceptable. I use barbless hooks and limit myself to four trout a day, more seems greedy.

My leaders are continuous taper and have no droppers, rings or loops. I carry one rod and leave my shoulder bag and lunch in the car along with any tackle that doesn’t fit in my jacket pockets. It’s liberating to travel light. I make a mental note not to buy anything described as technical or tactical which is a euphemism for expensive.

“Study to be quiet, and go a angling” 1653 Walton. Sometimes a walk along the river is better than fishing, a camera replaces the rod. Some of the old values are now inappropriate, all salmon and sea trout need to be returned not killed and displayed. Fat men holding fat fish, grip and grin, is repulsive.

I also fish for carp. I joined a local club which measures success on the number and size of the wooden platforms around the lake and how many trees have been cut down. I left after one season. I now fish a lake, by invitation only, where there are no rules and no litter. One rod, a quill float or free line, I fish in the margins. If I misbehaved, I would be quietly black balled, never invited back. “I do not complain at being able to sit in a quiet green place with so much beauty around me, . . .” BB 1949.

The current drive for growth and the relentless marketing of marginal improvements in tackle, particularly rods, will not end. I despair, “the act of ceasing to hope or believe in a situation improving.”

. . . – – – . . .

The plan was to spend most of my time fishing the Devon rivers and visit Sussex for a week each month. It was the driest March since 1961. The summer was the warmest on record.

The extremes of weather made fishing difficult. It was frustrating. At the end of March I caught a few trout from the Leconfield lakes. A very wet April looked promising, the spates on the Devon rivers encouraged sea trout to run the rivers and activated the brownies.

A hot May was the start of the extreme summer weather. After a brief spate in mid June, three prolonged, thirty-degree heat waves prevented me from fishing the Devon rivers during July.

The high moor turned brown and the water temperature in the rivers reached nearly twenty degrees. The mayfly hatch was sparse, the trout rose only at dusk on the Western Rother.

The Devon rivers looked beautiful but I was unable to catch a trout, I attributed that to a lack of skill and reduced fishing effort.

The difficult conditions on the rivers in Sussex and Devon prompted me to visit the Leconfield lakes and Burrator reservoir for some comparatively easy fishing.

Catching a few nice trout on a dry fly at the reservoir restored my confidence and I returned to the rivers with high hopes. August was a dry month, it felt like early autumn. Leaves swirled in the back eddies, it was easy to hook a leaf but not a trout.

The end of September was wet and windy and I fished every day during the last week of the season. The sea trout were migrating but in order to catch a trout, I had to end my Devon season at Burrator.

I failed to catch an end of season trout from the Rother and the lakes. In 2025 I’d spent more time on fishing club admin than fishing. That must change. I need to zone in to the rivers moods and that can only be done by spending more time watching and fishing.

The new lake at the farm filled with water and a few carp were transferred from the shallow pond. That should ensure that the youngsters and I have a few summer evenings watching a float.

. . . – – – . . .