It was cold. An east wind, overcast sky and odd spells of sunshine, were perfect for fishing. I had an urge to fish the Abbey Beat on the Tavy.
I took the Hardy Perfect that I had rescued from a market stall. The water level was good and the deep wooded valley sheltered me from the cold wind. I paddled in the margins, flicked a nymph across the pool and let it drift under the overhanging branches. After twenty minutes of concentration I left the pool. A trout rose exactly where I had been fishing !
After another twenty minutes I gave up on the fish. A huge sea trout drifted downstream and disappeared in the riffle at the end of the pool. I walked to another, much deeper pool and worked the nymph beyond a sand bank. Nothing responded.
The woods along the river bank were carpeted with bluebells, pink campion and wild garlic. The garlic squeaked as I crushed it under foot and the scent was overpowering. Japanese Knotweed and Himalayan Balsam lined the edge of the river and restricted my back cast.
The rod performed well and I only lost one nymph in the trees. As I left the river trout were rising for midges and I regretted leaving my dry flies at home !
The mayfly have a civilised life cycle, the nymphs make their way to the surface around noon. The duns flutter into the air and head for the nearest vegetation. The date on which the mayfly season starts is largely determined by the length of daylight hours. Other factors play a minor role. My diary entries record mayfly hatching at Little Springs on 30 April or 1 May consistently for over 10 years. The hatches are later on the Rother and last until late June.
A week earlier my hunt for mayfly had been inconclusive. I thought I had seen a couple of duns but they were too far away to be sure. I arrived at noon and had both lakes to myself. The strong, blustery, west wind made cats paws on the surface and stripped the seeds and pollen from the willow trees. The margins along the east bank were a constantly moving soup of debris, the trout were flashing at ascending nymphs and gulping down emerging mayfly.
I found a lone cowslip near the fishing hut which reminded me of the title pages of BB’s books. I took it as a good omen. The wind assisted my casting, floating the #3 line high on the forward cast enabled me to reach the middle of the lake, close to the feeding frenzy. For an hour the trout rose to my fly, I hooked four and netted only one. The hook pinged out of the other three as I reached for the landing net. I think the acute angle of the 10′ 6″ rod was too much, I should have extended the telescopic landing net handle.
The most successful fly was an extended foam body imitation of a spinner. I spent a while chasing the clouds of spinners to get a closer look until the hatch abruptly ended about 2:00pm. In a couple of weeks the Rother will come to life and I hope to continue fishing the mayfly hatch there.
A stiff easterly breeze, bright sunshine and a cloudless sky were not ideal weather conditions for trout fishing. I woke up early to see the boys off to school and to feed my furry friend. He stayed at home guarding the house against pesky squirrels.
I left the house and drove south towards Petworth through the school run traffic. I wanted to catch a trout using a mayfly. The start of the mayfly season is triggered mainly by the length of daylight hours. The earliest I had seen mayfly at the lakes was 30 April, St Georges Day was a bit early.
Little Springs was deserted and the trout were cruising in the shadows cast by the oak and lime trees along the east bank. They were gently sipping down the flies, occasionally head and tailing for buzzers. I fed the fly line through the many rings on the #3 10′ 6″ Sage ESN and checked that I hadn’t missed any or twisted the Rio line around the rod. The rod and line are a perfect match although not designed for my style of fishing.
I started with a teal winged mayfly, dropped ahead of cruising fish. It was carefully inspected and rejected by several fish. I changed to a French partridge pattern, that was also rejected. There were lots of Alder flies fluttering in the breeze but few landed in the water. It occurred to me that the fish might be focusing on buzzers but I persevered with a selection of mayflies.
I changed the tippet to 3lb and tied on a size 14 mayfly. Aiming high and ahead of a cruising fish, it fluttered down slowly and produced a positive take. The trout became airborne before running down the lake. It was in fin perfect condition and the fly dropped out of its jaw in the landing net, a perfect release. Job done. As the sun rose, the tree shadows faded and the fish retreated to the deeper water. I followed and missed a few more takes before heading back to the car for breakfast and a Red Bull, my substitute for coffee.
I sat on the bench at Great Springs, flicked a parachute pheasant tail into the wind and watched for a swirl. Tree debris, bud scales and petals, were being blown across the lake towards me and the trout were testing them to see if they were edible. The fish were only a few feet from the bank and I eventually hooked one which wriggled free after a few seconds. Never mind.
The wind and hot sun had exhausted me and I drove away from the lakes in a trance. It was twenty minutes before I realised that I was heading in the wrong direction. I could have caught a few more fish if I had switched to a buzzer but I had achieved my objective and all was well.
Recent visits to the Devon rivers and Sussex lakes are blurred in my memory. The contrast between the rivers and the lakes was stark as was the fishing but I don’t recall the details.
Devon – I walked the Abbey Beat and admired the water, I didn’t bother with a rod. The walk on the high moor beside the Cad was uplifting. I should have taken a rod.
The Plym was in prime condition, up a few inches and clear water. I took a rod. I anticipated a trout or two but nothing bothered my fly.
The spring scenery was a distraction, the water was cold and nothing hatched.
Large rocks had moved, trees had fallen and been washed into the margins by the winter spates. I saw no fish in the crystal clear water, it was too early in the season.
Sussex – I went to the lakes at Lower Bognor in the knowledge that the deep valley and mature trees would keep the worst of the north wind off the water. The lakes were slightly coloured and there were no signs of trout. I had made up my mind how I was going to fish on the drive south. A single size 14 black buzzer, slow sinking on a light tippet. It seemed overly optimistic to drift such a small insignificant fly across the ruffled lake surface. Surely the fly could not be easily seen.
I missed the first take, I was not concentrating. Over the course of two hours I missed a few takes, connected with four trout and landed three. I was cold and tired and three fish was a good result in poor conditions.
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.
Sussex Trout Fishing ... and Devon 