Author: Nigel Rainton

28 March – River Walkham

The River Walkham is my home river but I don’t fish it often, casting from the garden seems like cheating. In the summer I greet the little trout each morning and watch them feeding, they are part of the family. I had never fished two of the Walkham Beats. I eventually found the gate giving access to one of the upstream Beats and wandered down the side of the valley, through the woods to the river. Wow, I should have visited earlier, it looked lovely in the watery spring sunshine. It had been hot over the weekend and the fish had retired to the shelter of the tree roots and deep pools. I saw one fish but it saw me first and did a vanishing act in six inches of water ! Sedges and Blue Winged Olives filled the air and I decided to stick with a GRHE nymph, as usual.

The water was crystal clear, pouring directly off the moor. No run-off from agriculture or sewage outfalls polluted the little river. The deep narrow valley kept the sun off the woodland floor and the riverscape looked a bit bleak and wintery. I walked to the top of the Beat and fished back down. The woodland and river banks had not been ‘managed’ and it was tricky to find space for even a roll cast. Buzzards mewed high above the tree canopy, a wren fussed about beside the river and a kingfisher zoomed downstream. I saw another fish, slightly smaller than the first, but it arrowed away upstream into a culvert. I will return when the water is warmer.

29 March – River Tavy

It was a grey day but by early afternoon the mist had burnt off. My favourite Beat on the River Tavy beckoned. The river is wider than the Walkham and there are no casting restrictions. I knew exactly where I would start to fish, the riffle below the bend with the dead tree. It was a bit chilly and occasional drops of rain threatened to develop into a shower. The rocks were cold and the exposed algae and weed mimicked the smell of the seaside. The river seized my nymph and quickly put a bow in the line. Mending the line and hanging the leader on exposed midstream rocks enabled me to search the deep runs thoroughly and I was confident that I would get a take.

Some of the dead trees had been knocked over by the winter gales, they reminded me of the dinosaur skeletons in the Natural History Museum. The thin rocky soil prevents deep rooting, rain and the strong winds funneled up the valley had taken their toll. I searched among the stones and rocks under the exposed root ball but there were no treasures.

I fished all the runs and pools to the best of my ability and was slightly surprised not to catch anything. Even the big pool under the oak tree failed to produce a fish. Nevermind, it had been a good afternoon.

30 March – River Tamar

Rain was forecast, then snow later in the week. It was a bit misty and cold when I arrived at the river, the border between Devon and Cornwall. As I crossed the fields I wished I’d worn a heavier jacket but the sight of the river warmed me. A snipe rose from the rushes in the ditch and went jinking-off across the field, not happy with my intrusion. The work party had trimmed the trees and strung a new fence along the river bank. The big river required a good double-haul just to reach midstream.

I walked half a mile to the top of the Beat and fished the slow glides down and across with a nymph. The big riffles demanded a heavier and brighter fly so I swapped to a black and silver spider for those stretches. Blue sky and bright sunshine at lunch time produced a good hatch of Blue Winged Olives and midges.

The newly installed fencing required a high back cast. I retrieved all the snagged flies. At the bottom of the Beat the water flowed evenly and the trees along the far bank threw a shadow across the river which made watching the leader a lot easier. Without warning a fish took the nymph and lifted my spirits. I bullied it away from marginal debris, admired the little fish and returned it in a quiet pool. It was a very silver fish with large eyes, possibly a sea trout smolt. My first fish of the season.

I caught a trout on my first visit to the Tamar last season. As I wandered back across the fields to the car, I resolved to spend more time in Cornwall.

Cottage chores or fishing? A Blue Winged Olive settled on the window frame, it was a sign from Isaak. A Merlin helicopter passed overhead on its way to 42 Commando HQ at Bickleigh, that was another sign; I should fish my favourite river, the Plym. The weather forecast was for cold, easterly winds but as I looked over the bridge parapet in the village, a gentle south-westerly was hardly enough to disturb a cloud of midges. How do they get the forecast so wrong ?

The gorse was on fire at three separate locations to the north of the main Plymouth road and traffic had been diverted across the moor causing traffic jams. I eventually arrived at the river and hopped over the barbed wire into the quiet, shady woodland. I started at the pool just below the bridge. Sedges were hatching everywhere and a dipper frantically worked the opposite side of the pool picking off the emerging nymphs. I flicked the weighted nymph under the bridge and worked the deep water between both arches but despite my confidence nothing rattled the rod tip.

The river was crystal clear and flowing well. I crept along the waters edge, keeping low to avoid shadows. Each riffle and pool promised a fish but the fly remained unmolested. Just as I reached the most productive stretch four spaniels and a labrador crashed into the pool in pursuit of a tennis ball. Their owner looked a bit embarrassed and said that he would take the dogs further downstream. I left the river and drove to the bottom of the Beat.

Although I had removed three bin liners full of bottles and cans a few days earlier, Carlsberg cans dotted the emerging bluebell shoots like mushrooms and there were fresh embers in a fire pit. I cast upstream and worked the GRHE nymph down the channels in the bedrock. The best pool curved around a sheer rock face and I was relieved to have it to myself for thirty minutes. The sandy beach only had the footprints of deer, no humans or spaniels had been there.

I was slightly disappointed not to catch a trout but the warm breeze and bright spring sunshine were reason enough to be beside the river, the season is young.

The beautiful spring morning demanded a walk beside the river. My access to the Beat a few days earlier had been prevented by unfriendly signs but careful examination of the map revealed an alternative path. I wanted to explore the river but it wouldn’t do any harm to take a rod along for the walk, much like a dog except it wouldn’t chase pheasants.

The walk started badly. In my haste to reach the river bank a hundred feet below, I left the path and headed down through the woodland on the valley side. The steep slope became steeper and I lost my footing. I crashed through the trees and down onto the stone path having jettisoned my rod in mid tumble. I checked that my rod was unbroken before my arms and legs. Badly winded and bruised I thought about abandoning my expedition but the river beckoned. The first pool swept under my bank and would surely hold a trout.

I fitted the Hardy together, threaded the line through the rings and tied on a GRHE nymph. My shaky start ensured that the line and fly became tangled in the trees several times before getting wet. A pull from a trout would have steadied my nerves but it wasn’t to be.

I walked for about a mile, fishing the deep pools, until the hot sun and my bruises told me to turn back. I’d walked about half the Beat. I’d escaped serious injury and resolved to stick to the path in future.

Tapered leaders had been glued, rods waggled and fly lines cleaned. I was ready for the start of the trout season in Devon. The myriad choice of rivers was confusing. I walked my favourite Beat on the River Plym yesterday. The water looked beautiful but the litter annoyed me. I collected three big bin liners full of beer cans and bottles from between the bridge and the first pool, it filled the Defender.

I planned to fish a new Beat but unsure of the access, I was confronted with signs threatening dire consequences if I entered the woodland. I will return in a few days with a map. Plan B unwound as I trundled along the lanes not concentrating on navigation. I eventually found the river and left the Defender on a slippery rock outcrop.

The water level had dropped but the riffles crested white and I could hear the occasional clunk as a boulder shifted in the current. Blue Winged Olives were hatching in good numbers and the choice of fly was obvious, the usual small GRHE nymph.

My first few casts were amateurish and I had to retrieve the fly from various twigs and brambles. A comfortable routine soon established itself and muscle memory returned, I was in the groove and focused on the likely fishing holding places. A deep channel in midstream with a pale rock base looked promising and I was surprised not to get a take.

A Dipper flew downstream and a couple of Buzzards were using the thermals over the far side of the valley, their mewing was a welcome distraction.

I fished the deep water under the trees until I reached the end of the Beat. The bright sunshine and clear water were a hinderance. I need to tie some nymphs with a few extra turns of lead wire. I had enjoyed the walk and was only slightly disappointed not to have caught a trout.

Last season was a bit of a shambles so I popped into town to buy a year planner, one of those office size things. Sold out, it’s only February ! I must organize my time equally between Sussex and Devon. Mayfly time on the River Rother is not to be missed and Elgar Day, 15 June, must be celebrated. Four boys are keen to catch carp during the summer holidays. It all needs careful planning.

A couple of days ago I explored my favourite stretch of river to see what changes the winter spates had made. A large tree bough completely blocked the span of the road bridge and the riverside plants had all been flattened, tracing the swirls of the excess water. The bracken had died back revealing plastic rubbish thrown into the woods by passing walkers and cyclists. Garbage clung to the lower branches of riverside trees, left by the receding flood water. The tree roots had collected washed out fence posts, wire and plastic bags. Two major storms are forecast for this week and most of the rubbish will continue its journey downstream to Plymouth Sound. Next week I’ll go back with a bin liner and finish the job.

I have tied a few flies but I found it difficult to maintain concentration. In a few weeks the fast approaching season will motivate me.

This year I plan to explore Devon and Cornwall’s reservoirs. The scenery is spectacular and the fish are not suicidal. I feel confident when visiting the moorland rivers but I am always aware that there is a lot to learn.

It’s been a mild and dry January but the February rain has saturated Dartmoor. The weather is so mild that autumn is drifting slowly into spring.

I have no specific fishing goals this season, catching lots of fish or big fish no longer interests me. I will be content at the end of the season if I have enjoyed myself.