Author: Nigel Rainton

Friday morning, the spaniels, hikers and wetsuit-river-orienteers would be out in force. The car park appeared to be full but I squeezed into the last gap. I had never fished the beat, people and dogs do not mix with fishing. Taking a rod on my walk to identify river restoration sites seemed sensible.

I walked slowly along the rocky footpath among mature beech trees, unnoticed by the walkers and labradors. One old lady hurled abuse at her three out of control dogs. She was only a few yards away but failed to see me.

I found several pools without paw marks in the sand and flicked a nymph upstream gradually extending the line until the fly reached the white water.

Further up the beat the walkers and dogs petered out and I could concentrate on the small, rocky pools. I paddled in the margins as far as the hole in my right wellie would allow. Leaping from a boulder back to the path was a mistake and I crashed backwards into the water. My pockets were all sealed and nothing was lost. The ripstock cotton jacket and trousers would dry out before I got back to the car.

A huge beech tree had fallen across the path and I had to climb up the rocks out of the valley, my wet clothes were a constant reminder not to take any more risks.

I found a long glide below a gentle riffle and crept down to water level. The overhanging hazel bushes grabbed my fly a few times on the back cast but after a short rest, normal service was resumed and I caught a small trout from the head of the pool. That trout was a milestone, my first Devon trout this season and my first from the beat.

I was happy to walk further upstream, continuing to take note of places where gravel could be enhanced and riffles could be built. A young lady with a bright red jacket and two black spaniels was hurling sticks into the best pool and I decided to return to the car. Why do people wear bright red jackets when out walking ?

It had been a successful morning, an evening meal and a glass of wine at the pub finished off a lovely day.

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South West Water’s lack of maintenance deprived the village of water over the Easter holiday weekend. On Tuesday the pubs and schools closed and the River Walkham provided buckets of water to flush the loo. Last week’s spate had washed the rivers clean and the conditions were ideal for a visit to the Tavy. The Defender lurched around and scraped the diff on the rocky path down to the river, normal cars won’t make it.

The river was up a few inches but running clear. Blue winged olives were hatching, midges covered the surface of the water and the occasional mayfly struggled into the trees, battling against a stiff upstream breeze.

I started at the top of the beat and worked a wide riffle, confident that I would find a trout or two. The white water, the seams in the bedrock and the slacks produced nothing. My casting was good, the Sage #3 and Rio line worked well together. I moved downstream to the pool below the dead tree and spent an hour watching the water and searching around the boulders that litter the pool. Nothing.

The hatch intensified and I was sure that a trout would take the nymph at any second. I fished a couple of long, wide riffles but the water was a little too fast and I went back upstream to sit beside my favourite pool. I found a large smooth rock to rest my back against and sat in the sun for an hour waiting for a rise. It didn’t happen.

I think I started too early. I should have waited until the evening. I visited Big Pool after packing up, the water looked perfect. When I got back to my cottage the taps were still dry but I had a bottle of wine. Water into wine. Excellent.

. . . – – – . . .

It had been the driest March since 1961 and the spate rivers on the western edge of Dartmoor were low. Rain was forecast for the weekend.

I had a plan. Wait until dusk. The sky was blue, the sunlight intense and it was 20 degrees at lunchtime. The trout would not be feeding until the sun was off the water.

I travelled light and spent a long time beside the pool near the top of the beat. I missed the first take because I was looking at a pheasant. I also missed the second. Half way down the pool I changed flies, several times. There was no response. A trout rose and I tempted it with several midge imitations. Nothing. I had left the box of dry flies at home.

I moved downstream and found another trout rising behind a boulder in midstream. I put on a light tippet and immediately lost a nymph on the black weed that covers every submerged rock.

After sitting in the sun for a while, reviewing the evenings proceedings, I walked slowly back up the hill and drove home. Dinner in the pub completed a relaxing day.

The evenings are best, I must remember to take the box of dry flies with me next time.

. . . – – – . . .

I waited until the sunlight became less intense and the gale force wind had dropped a little. This season I planned to focus my attention on the Tavy, not wander around from river to river looking for greener grass. The steep rocky track down into the valley had not improved, I left the Defender on a slight slope, I didn’t want to be stranded by Land Rover electrickery approaching darkness.

The pool below the dead tree looked good, the water level was slightly higher than normal, a few leaves and alder catkins swirled in the current and the wind was mainly downstream.

The Sage #3 and a size 13 GRHE nymph on a light tippet gave me confidence. The line flicked out nicely and the fly landed with a plop that helped me see the start of its drift in the broken water.

I worked the nymph carefully, looking for movements in the line. As the fly swung through a deep pool between two dustbin sized rocks, the drift stalled and I lifted into a small but lively trout. I smiled when it wriggled free. The evening had started well.

Further downstream the river widened and the wind swirled around which made line control difficult. I worked the shallows and had a couple of takes both of which I missed.

By the time I reached the pool under the big oak tree I had started to lose concentration. It was time for a slow walk back up the hill. That small trout had lifted my spirits, I hadn’t expected to catch much because the water temperature is still low. Settled warm weather is forecast, the fish will soon be looking up.

. . . – – – . . .

The Devon season opened a couple of weeks ago but I was chasing rainbows in Sussex. March has been dry, Dartmoor still holds the winter rains and the rivers are a good level.

River Meavy

I took my rod for a walk from Shaugh Bridge to Goodameavy but didn’t take it out of the bag. The scenery was a distraction, the water was cold and there were no signs of trout. A few blue winged olives and Grannom were fluttering about, it won’t be long before the water warms and the trout look up.

River Tavy

I fished the River Tavy lower beat, there were plenty of upwing flies hatching from the shallows but despite the warm sunshine, the trout remained hidden. I felt sure my nymph would be grabbed but it wasn’t to be. Himalayan balsam shoots covered the sandy beaches and primroses decorated the woods.

River Walkham

I’d visited the lower River Walkham in previous seasons but my way had been barred by, fallen trees, a rock wall and wet stones covered in slippery moss. I’d turned back long before the end of the beat. A Saturday work party, armed with chain saws, cleared the lumber and I saw the best pools for the first time. I will return in a few weeks when the water has warmed up.

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