Author: Nigel Rainton

I listened to the radio as I drove south. LBC was very negative. London-Europe sounded like an alien culture and I was glad when the Defender hit a pot hole and the radio switched itself off. I felt a world away from the Working Dead in the capital. The heat wave continued but was moderated by a south westerly breeze. As I drove down the lane at Riverhill the South Downs looked spectacular. A patchwork of yellow and brown fields edged in dark green. It was a lovely day in the Sussex countryside and Hell if you were commuting to work.

I greeted the gnomes at Little Bognor and parked in the shade of a Silver Birch. The diesel engine clattered to a halt and there was silence. Except for the gurgling spring and the cooing of wood pigeons. I walked around the lakes and removed a few twigs that had interfered with my casting. The fish were not very active but the breeze had moved most of the dust and leaf debris into the margins and the lakes looked good.

I left the lakes and drove back through the woods towards Fittleworth. The mature Beech trees cast dappled sunlight on the track and the tyres crunched over last years mast. As I made my way south towards the river I saw fleets of tractors with trailers loaded to overflowing with various cereals. The bales of straw made geometric patterns in the fields of stubble. A pair of buzzards were tearing at the corpse of a squirrel on Kilsham Lane and newly sheared sheep were charging around the field. I stood under an Alder tree beside the river and looked in vain for the big chub. The sound of the water cascading over the fish pass was comforting. There were no fish rising.

At Rotherbridge I saw a few Dace but there was no sign of the Trout or the big carp. I could see the dimples in the sandy bottom and every leaf in the clumps of streamer weed but no Trout. A swan was uprooting weed and the river looked untidy.

The top beats looked good but I was not inspired. I saw a trout in midstream just below Taylors Bridge but it saw me and turned downstream towards a raft of rubbish. I waited a few minutes and the fish returned but although it was feeding, it was uncomfortable with my presence and drifted away again. It was a spooky fish, I thought it might take an Adams at sunset.

I left the river and drove north to check the lakes and collect the rest of the catch returns. The landscape looked like the Mid West dust bowl. The sandy soil was parched, a cloud of yellow dust followed the Land Rover to the fishing hut.

I returned to Little Bognor and had lunch under the Beech trees. The little seat was perfectly placed, it was in the shade and I could see the entire lake. A few Trout were taking flies off the surface but I was in no hurry to set up my rod. I wondered how many people had rested on the little seat and perhaps, like me, enjoyed the scenery with their picnic.

After lunch I tackled up and started with a dry fly, flicked out from behind the ferns. A couple of good fish ignored the fly. I wondered if it was hard to distinguish from the tree debris and swapped to a black spider. The response was immediate, the fish darted away in alarm. I tried various nymphs but although the fish examined the flies, they were too well educated and refused everything.

I moved along the bank and hooked a fish on a black spider with a red hackle, it came off after a few seconds. I moved along a bit further and sat on the stone steps. I hooked another fish but after a long fight, it snagged me in the tree roots and got off.

The third fish took an Adams and towards the end of the fight, I was determined to keep it away from the snags. The hook pulled. Nevermind, it had been a lovely day. The fish had escaped but I had connected with the best the Sussex countryside can offer.

 

I took my time driving to Petworth, it was a lovely morning and strangely, there wasn’t much traffic about. The weather forecast was hopeless, the only thing I could be sure about was that it was going to be hot. I stopped at Riverhill to look over the gate and to see how the harvest had changed the landscape. The breeze kept the humidity down and I stayed at Riverhill for a while admiring the scenery.

I checked the lakes at Little Bognor, the fish were feeding on buzzers under the trees. There were a lot of damsel flies around the margins of the top lake but I couldn’t find anything in the surface film except buzzer shucks. At Rotherbridge there were several Trout feeding both above and below the bridge, I decided to return there after I had visited the other lakes and had lunch.

The water temperature at the lakes was high, 23 degrees and the fish were distressed. The pond life was thriving, a few days of rain and the water temperature would drop. In the meantime it was a relaxing place to have lunch and watch the buzzards. On the way out of the estate I stopped on the crest of the hill and looked back over the Rother valley towards Midhurst. The view over the stubble was enhanced by the clouds welling up over the high ground.

I parked at Rotherbridge and decided to fish below the bridge on the North bank. I had seen a few Trout under the bushes and it would be a challenge to extract a fish from the tangle of Willow and Alder. This was not the time for my slow action split cane rod, I needed a rod that could fire a nymph under the branches and up the tree tunnel on my right. I stood behind the shoulder high stinging nettles and balsam, being careful not to spook the fish. I started with a few gentle casts into mid stream and gradually extended the fly line to cover a wider area across the river and downstream to my left. I used the Cortland 444 line so that I could clearly see the extent of the cast before it touched down. I lost a couple of black spiders in the bushes opposite. After knotting a new fly to the tippet, I flicked the line into the water and prepared to lift off for a longer cast. I saw the line tighten and lifted into a Trout. It came off after a few seconds. I persevered but although I saw a good fish swim past, I didn’t have another take. I lost several more flies in the tree tunnel where the Trout were feeding, too far upstream, way out of reach.

I crossed the bridge and worked a small shrimp imitation down the side of the streamer weeds and across the sandy patches. There were hundreds of Dace on the sand but they were not interested in my fly. I saw a Carp about 12lb cruising downstream and put the shrimp infront of it but it continued on its way without a glance. That was probably a good thing. I stood on the bridge and watched the Carp swim back upstream, occasionally dipping down to disturb the silt. It was a fully scaled common, not the mirror I had seen last year.

It had been a relaxing day and although I had not caught anything, I was content.

 

The harvest was in full swing. The school summer holidays start on Friday and that usually heralds bad weather. Last years harvest was ruined by heavy rain and the contractors were keen to take advantage of the long dry days. Huge tractors and even bigger trailers, thundered down the country lanes leaving spilt loads on corners and decorating the hedges and overhanging trees with straw. Three black plastic covered bales had fallen off a tractor turning too fast at the Rotherbridge cross roads.

I visited Little Bognor and was surprised to see quite a few Trout feeding. The surface of the water was covered in dust and debris from the trees but the fish were able to select buzzers from amongst the rubbish. The river at the Fish Pass looked lovely but lifeless. I leant over the railings at Rotherbridge and watched hundreds of Dace flashing silver on the sandy bottom. I heard the pop of a rising Trout behind me and turned to watch the shaded water downstream of the bridge. A good Trout, about 3lb, rose and took something too small to see. The fish continued to rise so I hunted for grasshoppers in the field and dropped three, one at a time, to drift towards it. The Trout rose and inspected each hopper and rejected them all. How is that possible ? A wriggling, twitching meal with no hook or leader. An artificial fly stood no chance. I saw a mink at Taylors Bridge and having finished my tour of the river, drove to Great Springs for a long, leisurely lunch.

I wanted to christen my Southwell cane rod, ideally with a fish from the river, but I needed a backup plan to ensure success. My cunning plan was to visit Little Bognor where I was reasonably confident of a fish or two and then go to the river for the evening rise.

Fishing under the trees was worrying. I usually hit the overhanging branches with my carbon rod several times each trip and so far, it has survived. Brittle, valuable, collectable split cane deserved more care. Trout were rising all along the east bank under the Beech trees. I sat behind the ferns and flicked a black spider on a short line towards cruising fish, moving along the bank each time I missed a fish. The cane rod handled the short line better than my carbon rod.

Eventually the leader twitched and I nervously lifted into the fish, not knowing how the fish or rod would react. I needn’t have worried, the rod had backbone with sensitivity which protected the 2lb bs leader. I returned the fish and moved down a few yards to another gap in the overhanging branches. I lost a few flies in the trees but hooked another fish close to the bank. It went on a long run to my right and threw the hook.

I moved again and sat above the flight of stone steps. There was plenty of room on my left for a short cast and soon another fish was dashing about under the trees, bringing the rod to life. I released that fish and thought about leaving Little Bognor for the evening rise on the river.

It had been a nice afternoon, I had christened the rod and the river would wait until Saturday.

 

Actually it wasn’t quite the parcel I had expected. I opened the front door to a young lady who handed me a fishing rod. In a canvas rod bag. No tube. No wrapping paper. No address label. Just a rod. It had travelled from the Midlands by courier totally unprotected. Imagine the Royal Mail . . .  No, it’s too horrible to contemplate. I was so shocked that I just mumbled something and shut the door. I should have hugged her and tipped her £10. In my dressing gown? Perhaps not.

I feverishly felt the rod bag for breakages, splinters and sharp bits of cane. It felt OK so I untied the ribbon and revealed the rod. It was perfection. The Holy Grail of English split cane. A very rare and collectable fly rod by Bob Southwell. Famous for his carp rods. Supplier to the great Richard Walker and B James. Moreover, if I had specified a custom build it would be fast action, ten feet and no frills. Exactly like the rod in my hands.

I examined it carefully. It bore all the hallmarks associated with Southwell. Dark cane, hot pressed nodes and a steely feel in the hand. Plus a label with the name of his father’s tackle business, J W Southwell. I felt privileged to hold a rod by the great man that was probably made around the time I was born.

I had a busy schedule and it was late evening before I could play with the rod. What to do? Should I use it? What line would suit the rod? Was it too heavy? I had a glass of wine and loaded up the rod with my favourite Hardy reel and modified Cortland 444. My first tentative cast on the damp lawn was surprising. The rod had a natural feel and curled out a straight line. It wouldn’t be hurried. Slow and accurate. It had the backbone for a longer cast but I ran out of lawn. I had another glass of wine and imagined a perfect evening on the river, with a perfect rod.

The following day I loaded my tackle into the back of the Defender and drove towards Petworth. The roads were full of fast cars heading to Goodwood for the Festival of Speed. I visited the big Chub under the streamer weed at the Fish Pass and decided to leave it for another day. As I looked into the water below Rotherbridge a trout rose and disappeared back under the raft of rubbish collected by the Willow tree. On the other side of the bridge a nice Trout was finning alongside a small tuft of streamer weed. A shoal of good size Dace were feeding on a patch of sand. The Wealden Hunt were due to pass through Rotherbridge and the water loving pack of hounds would disturb the Trout. I headed towards Keepers Bridge.

By the time I had set the rod up it was lunch time and the temperature was close to thirty degrees. I sat on the grass opposite the first Alder tree and curled a short line across the current. The action of the rod was slow but the length allowed me to delay the forward cast without catching the bushes. Lengthening the line helped balance the rod, it was best at about one river width which was very convenient. Over the next two hours I moved downstream, mainly casting with my left arm, exploring the weed beds and under the trees. I was happy with the rod and hoped to christen it with a Trout but the leader remained undisturbed. The sun was too bright. Nevermind, I enjoyed myself.

The weather had changed, the morning was overcast and the wind was cool. Perfect conditions for fishing. I didn’t want to leave the house, I was impatiently awaiting the delivery of a Very Important Parcel. I dragged myself away to visit the lakes and river Beats. I found a big grey shadow under a clump of streamer weed below the Fish Pass and a huge Trout at Rotherbridge. I eventually arrived at Keepers Bridge about 2:00pm. I had the river to myself and hoped for a relaxing stroll along the river without the pressure of catching a big Trout. A small one would be fine.

I sat on the grass opposite the first Alder tree and watched the river. It wasn’t long before a fish rose under the tree. I crept towards the fringe of nettles and gently cast upstream of the ripples. I gradually extended the length of my casts and after a few minutes the fish swirled and was hooked. It fought long and hard, up and down the pool. I released it from the net and wondered which way to go, upstream or down ?

I had a toffee and decided to walk upstream but as I was about to leave, another fish took an olive or damsel fly off the surface under a nearby Alder tree. I didn’t have to crawl far. I checked the tippet and hook before flicking a thickly hackled fly into midstream. With each cast I extended the line a little, the Trout came up but I failed to connect. I quickly flicked the fly out again incase the fish was circling, looking for a missed meal. It rose again but I missed. I rested the fish for ten minutes and trimmed the stiff hackle on the underside of the fly. On the next rise he was firmly hooked and dashed downstream into the weeds on my side of the river. The Trout kept going, pulling the line through the overhanging plants and I was forced to follow. After much rod bending and untangling the line came free and the fish dashed back upstream to where we started and where I had left the landing net. The fish took a while to recover but eventually swam away, back into the weeds.

I walked up to the Old Riffle and saw a fish swirl. The current in the smooth water above the riffle was strong and a dry fly dragged within seconds. I changed to a black spider and hooked a good fish close to the lip of the riffle but it shook the hook. I moved upstream to the Wide Pool hoping to avoid the embarrassment of hooking the tree. I had a few preparatory casts into the middle of the pool without hooking a tree and then had the confidence to cast upstream under the bushes. A wild fish about 6ozs took the nymph and was quickly returned. I wandered upstream but I couldn’t find a rising fish. I returned to the Old Riffle. There were several fish rising to olives so I switched to a size 16 Olive and allowed the leader to drop loosely to minimize drag. A fish looked at the fly but rejected it. I changed back to a black spider and hooked a fish which charged all over the pool, seeking out the tree roots on the far side and then dashing into the weeds under my feet. I bullied it into the net and released it carefully. It was about 2lb and in very good condition.

I had enjoyed the afternoon and ambled back towards Keepers Bridge. The pub was calling but as I walked towards the bridge, I saw several fish rising. The rise forms were aggressive. The fish were attacking thousands of damsel flies hovering just above the surface and settling on the weed fronds. I couldn’t ignore the rises. I tied on a small black dry fly and flicked it into midstream. It was taken immediately but the tiny hook failed to hold the fish. I caught a Trout on an Adams and then another on the fly I had trimmed earlier. The last fish took all of my fly line and pointed me. I had to run along the bank to avoid a break. It was about 1lb 8ozs and was foul hooked under the jaw. If I had lost the fish, it would have weighed at least 3lbs.

It had been a very enjoyable afternoon. When I got home the Very Important Parcel had not arrived.