Author: Nigel Rainton

1 July – Little Bognor

The surface of the lower lake, an old mill pond, was calm with very little debris from the overhanging trees. The trout were cruising just under the surface taking the occasional hatching midge. The scene was set, all I had to do was tempt a couple of fish to inhale my buzzer imitation.

The horizontal slot between the overhanging trees and the marginal ferns was very thin, only a couple of feet. I expected to regularly snag branches and fern fronds. That proved to be the case. Flicking a short line and long leader through the letter box was only successful about fifty percent of the time. The trout were passing me about a rod length out from the bank and it was essential not to disturb them with casting errors.

The trout in the margins refused my offering for thirty minutes but a fish cruising a little further out took the buzzer on the drop and screamed across the lake. The sound of the drag screeching and the fly line cutting through the surface made me forget about the hassles with the vegetation. It was a dark fish with pristine fins which swam away strongly.

A trout had been rising under the trees by the old stone steps, it was feeding confidently in the shade of the overhanging chestnut trees. I crawled along the bank and flicked the buzzer towards the fish with a bow-and-arrow cast. The fly landed short but a risky overhead cast positioned it perfectly. The trout took the fly without hesitation and headed for the opposite bank. It was released without handling. The rising fish had all departed and no amount of stealth would bring them back.

The top lake looked stunning, the willow trees straddling the feeder stream had grown and hidden the cottage on the hill. The lake was deserted, a buzzard leisurely left the branch of a giant oak tree and drifted away down the valley. The top of the lake, where the spring entered, was lined with rushes and Potamageton natans, my favourite water plant. Trout were rising near the weeds, picking off emerging midges. I cast the rather tatty buzzer close to the floating leaves and the leader slid away. I hooked the fish but it came adrift. A few minutes later I connected with another trout but it also shook the hook. Having trashed that part of the lake, I moved to the far corner under an oak tree. A very large trout followed my buzzer to the edge of the weeds but sheered away unconvinced by the fly which was falling apart.

I changed the fly and renewed the tippet. There is always a trout feeding beside the lily pads under the willow tree. It took the fresh buzzer within seconds of casting and was bullied away from danger into open water. Three fish from five takes was enough, I left the lakes and went to Rotherbridge for the club’s River Day. I was too tired to fish the evening rise on the river. I would return on Sunday. What a memorable day !

2 July – River Rother

We went to a fayre in the afternoon and saw the Red Arrows roar overhead at 500 feet. It was bright, hot and windy but I knew that, in the evening, the river would be in perfect condition. I was correct, the water had a slight tint and the water temperature was 14 degrees. I saw four mayfly hatch and the surface was covered with swarms of midges.

I waited on the first bend watching for signs of a feeding fish. After twenty minutes I got fed up with waiting and decided to prospect the pool under the alder tree with a nymph. I worked the water and kept an eye on the river downstream. A fish rose above the bridge near the far bank. I marked it’s position and tied on a parachute pheasant tail. The fly dragged and the fish stayed deep. After several changes of fly I rested the fish and crossed the bridge to avoid drag.

I tried a variety of nymphs down the main current and across towards the true left bank. The fish rose again under the right bank ! I recrossed the bridge and wandered upstream, exploring all the usual holding places but I could not concentrate. The rising fish near the bridge was a distraction. I returned to the trout and planned my campaign. I tied on a heavily leaded Red Tag, a fly rarely used by other members. The trout would not have seen such a thing and the fly would not skate in the fast water. I used the lower part of a bed of streamer weed to anchor the fly line midstream and worked the fly behind the weeds close to the bottom.

The take came as a surprise. It was violent. The trout immediately dived for the bankside bushes and I bent the rod to lever it away from the alder roots. It was a relief to net the fish.

That trout was a milestone, the first I have caught from the Rother this season. Most years I open my account on the river in early May. Less frequent visits to the Rother left me out of touch with the river’s moods. Now that I have found, outwitted and landed a trout, I feel that I am back in the zone and that more trout will find the back of the net.

The heatwave had ended, it was overcast and still. The river was calling me. I decided to explore the upper reaches of a Beat on the Tavy, a part of the river I had not fished before. It would be good to find new pools and riffles.

I chose the path leading upstream and wandered to the top of the Beat. The deep river valley was alive with the sound of moving water and the air was filled with flying insects, too many species to aid my choice of fly. Huge rocks diverted the current forming back eddies and glides. I should have explored that part of the Beat years ago.

The water was fast and deep, the trout were not rising. I decided to work a nymph around the rocks and down the glides. I immediately had a take and connected but the fish shook itself free. That was a good start, my confidence was high. The short casts unrolled nicely and I constantly mended the line to keep in touch with the fly. Moving downstream, carefully covering all the likely places, I failed to find another fish. The casts became erratic and I snagged a few trees. My confidence dwindled.

I saw a fish rise in the fast water above a deep run. It was the confident rise of a feeding trout. I botched the first cast and sent the parachute Adams skating over the fish. Frustrated, I lifted the line and backcast into an overhanging tree.

Pale watery female dun

I was torn between a dry fly or nymph. My instinct was to persevere with the nymph. I made my way slowly downstream, keeping low, trying not to kick the rocks.

I eventually reached the end of the path and decided to return to the cottage for a glass of wine. I should have fished late into the evening when the fading light would have encouraged the trout to rise. Next time.

The River Walkham flows through the village, it is my home river. I watch the trout in the pool below the ancient bridge most days. They are friends, not to be caught. They quickly grow fat on the constant stream of nymphs stirred up by the children swimming in the weir pool.

Heavy rain was forecast, it was time to walk beside the river before the water level rose. I wanted shelter from the sun, a relaxing walk and silence. The deep, wooded valley behind locked gates fitted the bill perfectly.

I wandered down the gently sloping path beneath mature oaks, stepping over wayward brambles and ferns. The tyre ruts were overgrown and there were no footprints or paw prints in the damp mud. The woodland hadn’t been disturbed for weeks.

I saw a trout rise in the pool just above the fish pass and managed to scare it away with a clumsy cast. The nymph caught on a rock. I calmed down and switched tactics. The water was too shallow for a nymph, a parachute midge on a 2lb tippet was a better option.

I hid behind a tree and waited for a trout to rise. A roll cast from the hand dropped the fly ahead of a fish which came off after a few seconds. That was progress. To my surprise the fish returned to it’s station and continued to rise ! It refused my fly and I moved upstream, hoping to catch it on my return journey.

I crept through the undergrowth and climbed down a rocky bank. Crouching beside the water was awkward but I managed to flick the fly across the river at the top of a glide. A trout grabbed the fly immediately and was safely released without handling. I’ve always had success in that pool.

On my return journey I cast to several rising fish but they melted away and reappeared further downstream. The fish in the pool above the fish pass was not impressed by my casting.

It had been a lovely evening, two hours slowly wandering through the woods with a rod. Back at the cottage I sat in the garden with a glass of wine until the sun dipped below the trees. A perfect day.

The morning was very hot and humid. The gentle breeze, from the north west, barely stirred the tree tops. What an odd direction for a warm wind !

I wanted to fish a stretch of river with plenty of shade. I hadn’t visited the Abbey Beat for a while and felt that it deserved my attention. I hoped that after a hot sunny weekend, wild swimmers and dog walkers would stay away from the river.

Late in the afternoon as I walked down the track the woodland kept me cool but the horse flies ambushed me from the underside of the leaves. I had foreseen this. A long sleeved shirt and plenty of repellant kept them at bay.

The river looked perfect, clear and flowing well. The level was higher than I had imagined and partly filled my wellies as I paddled across a riffle to the true right hand bank.

I walked upstream and found a pool below a wide beach of multi-coloured granite stones. I crept forward and sat on a flat rock, flicking the nymph into the margins before working my side of the bubble line. As I watched the tip of the line, it slowed and dipped, a barely noticeable take. The trout came off near the bank which made me smile. Could I regard the little fish as ‘caught’ ? Probably not.

I moved downstream to fish a long pool with deep water along the far bank and overhanging trees, a perfect place for a trout. I had a take but the rattle on the rod tip failed to transform into a bend. As I walked downstream to exit the pool, the water came up to my thighs. I paused by a fallen tree to empty my boots and to dangle the nymph into a deep, rock strewn pool.

I squelched further downstream to a glide under trees and fished hard against the rock wall along the far bank. The nymph curled under the overhanging trees and was taken firmly. I connected and released the trout which swam away and settled on a sandy patch, completely invisible.

The water was chilly, the pools were a good depth and there was plenty of water for fish to run upstream. I will explore the Abbey Beat more often.

I had been waiting all day for the car to be fixed. The new brake discs and pads cost almost as much as a Sage LL but I was finally free to fish the evening rise. A relaxing walk by the river was in order. I took Southwell IV and left the carbon fibre in the cottage. The pristine rod, about 60 years old, would ensure that I fished slowly and didn’t fire any fast, low shots at rising fish. Carefully taking the rod from its canvas bag cheered me up.

As I approached the river a buzzard dropped from the bough of an ancient oak and flapped away upstream, I also disturbed a goosander. The water temperature was 15 degrees and the level was perfect. A dipper whizzed downstream and wagtails perched on most of the mid-stream rocks snapping up olives and midges. The air was thick with flies. A lone mayfly fluttered into the beak of a wagtail, it’s adult life span had been about ten seconds. A yellow may made it past the birds into the trees. Spinners dipped into the water to lay eggs, occasionally crash landing.

I walked to the top of the Beat and concentrated on running a GRHE nymph down the bubble line and across into the near bank shallows. With each cast I was convinced that I would get a take. Starting with a nymph had become a habit, a ritual. There was no logic involved, it just felt right despite all the rising trout.

The fish continually rising in the flat water at the tail of the pool finally convinced me to change tactics. I chose a size 16 imitation of a midge and after several casts, just before drag set in, the trout rolled over the dry fly. Hooked, jumped and lost. It looked like a sea trout. I wished it well on its journey upstream and decided to stick with the dry fly for the rest of the evening.

I ignored the fast water and moved downstream looking for glides and flats with rising fish. I found a nice glide with several fish rising near the far bank below a rock. They were dashing about in the bubble line competing for emergers, a sure sign of an easy take. I missed the first take, rested the fish for a few minutes and missed the second.

I walked slowly down to the big pool under the oak tree and sat on a pier of rock waiting for signs of rising trout. All the rocks were daubed with white guano, a sign that the fish had been eaten by goosanders. I rose another trout in the glide below the rock but didn’t connect.

During my walk back upstream an olive spinner landed on my insect repellant soaked hat and waited for me to adjust the camera. The fumes must have anaesthetised it. The spinner posed nicely and then flew away. Later at the cottage, I tried to identify the species from a reference book but after a couple of glasses of wine they all looked the same.