Author: Nigel Rainton

I left the farm late in the afternoon, I had an evening appointment with a trout and I didn’t want to arrive too early. The weather was perfect, a warm westerly and cirrus clouds. The gentle breeze was upstream and would help with presentation. Rother fish grow big and I took the #4 Hardy to lever the trout out of the streamer weed. I was confident. The river was dark green and clear, the streamer weed had died back, with the shorter days there was little sunlight for the chlorophyll that sustained it.

I’d had two previous encounters with the trout and on both occasions my hurried casting across the pool had put the fish down. As usual, I had a plan. I carefully tied on my best GRHE nymph making sure not to strangle the 5lb tippet with a dry knot. I crept towards the pool on the damp grass and hid behind the weeds. The trout rose in midstream. I briefly considered changing to a dry fly but stuck to the plan.

The first tentative cast was a bit short and downstream of the rise. I flicked out the nymph gently and immediately the tippet straightened. I was into the fish. I had assumed that it was a small wild fish but when it rolled and splashed on the surface it looked enormous. My plan hadn’t included the landing net which I had left out of reach. The fish burrowed under the brown streamer weeds and I put a bend in the Hardy that a #3 weight or a split cane rod would not have survived. Everything held and I eventually admired the big head, long body and spade like tail, it was about 3lbs and the nymph was lodged in it’s tongue. It had been feeding.

After such a long campaign I felt that I knew the fish and it was good to see my friend swim off strongly back into the weeds. I hadn’t thought about the rest of the evening. After two casts the plan had been executed to perfection, much quicker than I had imagined. I strolled up and down the beat taking a few photos, not giving much thought to fishing and left an hour earlier than I had intended for a roast dinner and a beer at the farm. After a frustrating season on the river it was nice to end on a high.

It was a lovely sunny afternoon and it seemed daft not to go fishing. So I went to the lakes. The southerly wind ruffled the surface and the occasional cloud darkened the surface making it hard to see the leader. No fish were moving. An old strategy wandered into my mind, drift a buzzer across the wind and wait for the line to straighten. Static fishing at it’s best. The fly choice was obvious, a size 12 black neoprene buzzer.

I sat on the bench with the wind behind me and relaxed, the fish would be deep and near to the bank. I kept my shadow off the water and flicked the buzzer out about ten yards. I was distracted by a pair of red kites summersaulting over the tree line but a slight movement of the tippet caught my eye and I lifted into a trout. Second cast, how spooky, just like the fish from the river.

I fished half-heartedly, expecting lots more takes. Not so, two hours later as I was admiring the clouds, the leader moved again and I was late lifting the rod. I briefly hooked the trout, probably just as it was rejecting the fly. It had been a relaxing afternoon, sunny and warm with a nice cup of tea.

. . . – – – . . .

I wanted to fish on the last day of the Devon trout season, it would be a long wait until March 15 2027. I thought about the rivers and how I wanted to fish. A nice quiet, relaxing stretch with no dog walkers was favourite.

I drove to a very quiet beat on the River Plym and walked through the woods, excited to see the river again. We’d had rain overnight, it had woken me. I’d forgotten about the rain, during a drought ridden summer, it had become an alien sound.

I heard the river long before I saw it, the water was rushing through and the riffles had white crests below the rocks. I stood for a while, watching for movement. The water was a bit faster than I like and coloured. I searched for a fishable pool but the colour and swirling leaves put me off. It would be hard work, not a relaxing end to the season. I walked back to the Defender, rod still in its sleeve.

I was confused, I sat and thought. The river would be clearer further upstream. The river would gather more run-off and leaves as it raced towards Plymouth Sound. I drove to the next beat upstream and as I crossed the old stone bridge, I could see that the beat was unfishable. I decided that I was too scruffy to have lunch in the pub and took a moorland road, the long way home.

I passed a tourist hot-spot, there were coaches, cars, people, dogs and back packing students everywhere. The river had been diverted by numerous tourist dams, there were several runs and some long shallow pools. It was sunny and I walked upstream away from the distractions in the car park. The water was clear and sparkled, inviting me to run a nymph through the channels. I hesitated but eventually put the rod together and paddled in the shallow water midstream. The strong upstream wind help me place the fly accurately in the deeper water on the outside of a long sweeping bend. I spent an hour with the sun and wind behind me, using the rod for its true purpose, short line upstream nymphing. The trout were not impressed but it didn’t matter.

It had been a frustrating season. The long hot summer and lack of rain had ruined the trout fishing. Next summer is forecast to be hotter and longer.

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The hot dry weather continued until the end of August when a few millimetres of rain settled the dust. Dartmoor had rain in the first week of September, the run-off was enough to raise the level of the River Walkham an inch but there was not enough water to penetrate the ground.

On the River Tavy a few leaves fluttered in the current, the shedding trees were stressed from the long hot summer. I spent six consecutive days walking the Tavy beats, not fishing, just looking for trout and mapping the clumps of Japanese Knotweed. I resolved to revisit the places that held trout and to take a rod with me !

I invited a guest to fish the Tavy, conditions were perfect. The rain stopped just as we arrived at the river and the sun struggled through the overcast. The river had a slightly brownish tint, best bitter rather than lager, but was not cloudy like some beers. Blue winged olives were hatching in good numbers.

The plan was simple, I would assist but not interfere. The light was constantly changing and I was happy to wander around taking photographs. The chosen tactics were beyond my experience. A nymph on the point and a dry fly on the dropper. I use only one fly which minimizes tangles and prevents a hooked fish from snagging the trailing fly.

My guests stealthy approach and gentle casting with a short line resulted in a fish from the first pool. I was happy for them but not overly surprised as that pool usually contains a trout. The fish had taken the small, iron blue dry fly which made me think. The day continued in the same manner, a break for lunch and two lost sea trout in the afternoon to the duo. It was a revelation, I resolved to try it. A great day, the scenery was spectacular, the weather was good and there were fish to be caught. Excellent.

The drive to Sussex was boring. The rain followed me from Devon, blowing east towards the Rother. I waited a couple of days for the river level to drop. During the drive to the river I made plans. I would conduct a two hour experiment using a dry fly on the dropper and a GRHE nymph on the point. I would continue with the setup throughout my brief trip. Rain was forecast.

The river was grey, the colour of road run-off, very shallow and slow moving. The air was heavy, it was warm and humid, clouds were building over the South Downs and for once, the weather forecast seemed accurate. There were no flies hatching so I chose a foam bodied black beetle to support the nymph and settled down on the damp grass to practice casting the unfamiliar setup. Slow wide loops and no trick shots. The Sage ESN and Rio #3 combination worked well and I had no tangles.

I saw a trout rise downstream of an alder tree in a small pool, the tail of which was clogged with streamer weed and rushes. A wild fish usually hangs out there. A stealthy approach and a gentle cast across and down failed to produce a take. I rested the fish a few times but after an hour I left the pool and walked further down to a seat. Several toffees rejuvenated me. I tried again for the trout but from the opposite bank. With the sun behind me it was obvious that the pool was a lot shallower than I thought, my earlier efforts had probably lined the fish and driven it into shelter. The experiment had been a partial success, there had been no tangles.

I needed a boost to my confidence, the carp in the farm lake would suffice. The bigger carp were chasing thousands of fry, herding them into the margins. I saw a Kingfisher sitting on a lump of dead weeds. It dived regularly and took away several tiny carp from the shallow water. A group of goldfinches were busy on the thistles. I flicked a popped-up dog biscuit into two feet of water and waited for the rod to bend. It bent four times before I returned to the farm house for a cup of tea.

. . . – – – . . .

Devon had over fifty days without rain until the thunderstorm last night. The South East of England was a desert. While driving over Salisbury Plain, the countryside towards all of the horizons was the colour of straw. It was straw. Five weeks of 30 degree heat had desiccated the fields, the sheep and cattle had only dry stubble to graze on, they were out of condition.

River Walkham

The Western Rother was very low and warm throughout my stay in Sussex and the fly rod never came out of its case. I fished for carp in the farm lake and watched the eclipse. I caught a few pretty, little, fat carp on slow sinking dog biscuits. They fought well above their weight. The lake was full of carp-lets. I scooped out a couple with my landing net. Perfect miniature commons.

Back in Devon, I visited the club’s beats on the River Tavy. During five consecutive days I walked each of the beats, travelling slowly downstream, looking for fish and mapping invasive plants. I watched a trout cruising around a small depression in the bedrock, occasionally rising for flies. It was catchable but the rod was at home.

River Tavy

I met a family beside the river, three young children were playing in the shallows, they were enjoying themselves. Their mother seemed unconcerned when I gently mentioned the sewage discharge upstream.

Next year is forecast to be a super El Niño. The sea surface temperature around Cornwall is currently 19 degrees. The 2015 floods were linked to the last super El Niño. Eleven named storms produced record level rainfall from November 2015 to March 2016. The Met Office have warned of autumn storms and a hotter summer.

I need to prepare for extreme weather. Autumn and winter storms will fill the lakes and encourage the sea trout upstream but the spate rivers would be unfishable. If next year is hot, I will seek out mullet and bass.

. . . – – – . . .

Fourteen consecutive days of air temperatures over 30°C. The water temperature of the lowland River Rother was 20°C, over my limit of 18°C. The trout were not active, they were in deep, fast, weedy water waiting for darkness when they might take the odd shrimp.

The Leconfield lakes were 21°C and looked beautiful but dead, no fish moved. It was even too hot for carp fishing. I returned to Devon.

The temperature of the Dartmoor rivers varied from 23°C to 18°C. The fast water, shallow riffles and tree lined banks kept the water temperature down on the Tavy. I fished for a couple of hours and had three takes but failed to connect.

The fourteen day heat wave was followed by a further two weeks of hot weather. I visited Burrator one evening but the water level had not dropped as much as I had hoped and I had a frustrating couple of hours snagging the large boulders that lined the edge of the reservoir. The trout were offshore in the deep water, nothing moved.

In Devon during 2024 the prolonged rain in the spring and regular spates throughout the summer, meant that the rivers were full. 2025 had the driest March since 1961 and the summer was the warmest on record.

According to the Met Office, the mean maximum summer temperature in England has increased steadily since 1960 from 19°C to 21°C in 2020. Since 1960 the annual winter rainfall in England has also steadily increased by 13%. The summers are getting hotter and the winters wetter. Global warming is here.

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