Author: Nigel Rainton

I was keen to fish the river. The level was dropping quickly and the colour was gradually disappearing as the fine silt from the lettuce fields settled. I visited Little Bognor on the way, it was sultry, quite oppressive. There were fish moving under the Beech trees but I’d had my fill of margin fishing.

At the river another member had already signed in for the Beat that I intended to fish. The stretch below the Fish Pass looked inviting but I thought Rotherbridge might be more productive. I could see the riverbed from the centre of the bridge or was it my imagination ? The streamer weed was visible in the shallower water along the edge of the river but the main flow looked barren. The weed was probably uprooted during the winter floods.

After discussing the weeks catch returns I headed North, Petworth was clogged with tourists but the Defender soon cleared a path. I had a leisurely lunch at the fishing hut and sat in the sun listening to the Cuckoo and watching the trees move in the gentle breeze. The air was hardly moving and seemed to change direction every few minutes. The temperature was 82 F and there were no clouds to interrupt the suns rays. Thankfully, I’d stopped at Pulborough earlier and bought some factor 20. I parked under the tree at Luffs and walked to the far side of the lake, the overhanging trees provide cover and shelter for the fish. The breeze ruffled the surface of the water and occasionally a Trout rose to snatch something off the surface, probably tadpoles. I started at the shallow end but there were no signs of fish, it was too exposed. I moved along the bank and fished close to an overhanging  Oak tree. The tree was cover for some nice Roach which chased my fly but wouldn’t take it.

I moved down the bank a bit further and fished beside the Willow tree. Fish were moving in the centre of the lake, way out of range. I walked around the lake to the dam end and stood in the shade of a big tree. The breeze was blowing towards me and the margins were covered with bits of algae and tiny leaves. A fish moved on my right, just within range. It was circling around, rising every few minutes.

Several casts later the leader twitched and started to move. I lifted into a fish which skittered around half heartedly and felt small. I encouraged it towards the net while wondering if it might be a big Roach. Then the fish woke up, it went on a screaming run up the centre of the lake. A Trout, no doubt about that. It fought long and hard back towards the landing net. It spooked again and shot away from me. I let the reel spin freely until there was a sickening tug. I thought the line had jammed. Not so, I had reached the end of the fly line. I thought that was the end but held tight and luckily the fish turned. It made several more long runs before I saw it clearly, it looked about 3lb.

I weighed it at the hut, it was 2lb 12ozs. A beautiful looking fish, all muscle. I poached it gently with a little lemon juice and ate it with thinly sliced brown bread accompanied by a glass of beer. A meal that brought back memories of trout suppers at my Grandparents.

Little Bognor – I left later than usual, the local roads were clogged with Bank Holiday Lycramaniacs but once over the county border, the lanes were empty and I had a relaxing drive to Riverhill. I was looking forward to exploring the woods at Little Bognor. The sky was baby blue and the sun shining through the young Beech leaves made them glow bright green. I intended to explore the area but as I walked beside the lake several Trout were feeding close to the bank and the temptation was too great. I collected my rod from the car and settled down under the Beech trees close to the seat. I sat still for ten minutes, watching the fish under the bank. One was even feeding underneath the fishing platform. The steep sided valley, the ancient trees and the near silence created a magical atmosphere. It was easy to watch and wait.

I decided to try something different, a winged Olive. I only needed to flick the fly into the margins, it wouldn’t twist the tippet. A fish was patrolling the water just beyond my rod tip. A bow-and-arrow cast dropped the fly in it’s tracks. The fly floated well, the surface film was thick with dust and I could easily see the tippet. So could the Trout. I waited patiently, occasionally flicking the fly into different positions and allowing it to drift close to the bank. A fish swirled under the fly, the water heaved and the ripples subsided leaving the fly half submerged. I changed to a Black Spider but although several fish passed close to it, none investigated. It seemed too small, it was indistinguishable from the dust and plant debris.

I tied on a size 12 parachute emerger and flicked it out, the movement of the rod frightened two fish infront of me. Perhaps it flashed in the sunlight. After a short rest the fish resumed their patrol. A Trout made it’s way towards me. I jiggled the rod tip to make the fly twitch, then raised the rod to induce a take. The fish grabbed the fly and charged out into the centre of the lake. Twenty yards of fly line poured off the reel. I didn’t touch the reel, the tippet would have broken. The thick grease I put on the spindle stopped the spool from over-running without a screeching ratchet. After a lengthy fight I netted the fish which had swallowed the fly and was bleeding. There was no point in returning a damaged Trout, it would die. It was 2lb and very plump. The first fish I have retained from Little Bognor this season.

I went for a walk in the woods and visited Rex Vicat Cole’s twisted, old Spanish Chestnut tree. It has been there at least two hundred years. He sketched the dead tree between 1901 and 1907, it’s lost some top branches but still looks much the same.

Little Springs – I was thirsty and hungry so I drove to the fishing hut and had lunch sitting beside the shallows at Little Springs. The fish were feeding on the surface very close to the bank, similar to Little Bognor. Several Trout about 3lb were within range and once again, the temptation was too great. After lunch I set up my rod beside the car then crept back to the shallows. I sat on the grass well back from the waters edge and waited for the Trout to cruise past. I cast a size 14 Neoprene Black Spider infront of a couple of fish, both of which inspected the fly. One swirled but I lifted too soon. The next fish rose in slow motion, poked it’s nose out of the water and gulped the fly down. I waited. When I lifted the rod the fish exploded, thrashing the water then speeding away on a long run. A very long run. It wasn’t 3lb but it fought like it. I gave both fish to a Guest who hadn’t caught anything.

A Cuckoo was calling loudly as I left the lakes and the fish were still rising. I searched the rushes and trees for Mayfly but I couldn’t find any. The weather is set fair and the river level is falling. On Monday it would be nice to catch a fish from the river with a Mayfly.

 

‘Wood magic … so delicate and elusive’

‘A fine spirits lifelong wistful brooding upon the loveliness of earth’

‘The wonder of the world, the beauty and the power, the shapes of things ….’

‘… their colours, lights and shades; these I saw, look ye also while life lasts.’

The Sinister Trees

Sir Edward and Lady Alice

 

I started my day at Bedham. It was a beautiful Spring morning and I decided to take a detour through the woods. The single track road from Bedham to Fittleworth was deserted and I stopped for a wander through the trees. I explored the headlands of a wheat field at Fittleworth and watched the clouds billowing up along the South Downs.

The lakes at Little Bognor were calm and the fish were hiding. It was only 10:00am but the sun was warm and it was too hot for a jacket. I visited the river knowing that it was very high and coloured. There would be no chance of a Rother Trout for several days. I went to Great Springs via Tillington and had a look at Lower Figgs on the way. I saw my first Mayfly beside Little Springs, it fluttered into the top of a tree where it would be safe. I looked on the underside of the new leaves but I couldn’t find any more. The long winter has delayed everything, last year I saw my first Mayfly on 1st May. I walked around the lakes with a cup of tea and chocolate biscuit for breakfast. There were millions of tadpoles in the margins and the Trout were picking them off.

I thought it would be too easy to catch a fish there, a Black Spider twitched back into the margins would be irresistible. I went to Luffs where the air was thick with Hawthorn flies and midges. I strolled down the track to Upper Figgs and watched the fish rising under the trees. I hung over the bridge rail looking down into the stream between the two lakes and saw three good Trout patrolling just above a weed bed. The current was strong and the fish were active. I returned to Luffs for my rod and net and positioned myself with the sun in my face, watching the Trout in the stream. One fish was turning on it’s side and slapping itself against the gravel, cutting a redd.

The three fish scattered downstream at my first cast. Although I had lengthened the line on the grass beforehand, I misjudged the distance. There would be no second chance. The Trout were swirling around under a small tree at the top of the lake, waiting for a chance to return to the stream. I decided to rest them and moved further down the lake where fish were hammering the tadpoles. I searched a small bay with a Black Spider, expecting a thump on the rod. I lost three flies as a result of overcasting, the Rio line was not the best choice. It shoots out of the rod rings easily but because of it’s green colouring, I can’t judge it’s flight accurately. A fish swirled at the fly but didn’t take.

With only one weighted Black Spider left in my box I retreated to the South bank of the lake and watched another group of fish feeding very close to the bank. They were taking something from the surface, not tadpoles. I changed to a dry fly. It was ignored. I changed flies several times but the dark shadows passed underneath without a glance. I wondered if my flies were too small and selected a size 12 Walkers Sedge with a long dark wing. A fish took it in the margin as I was twitching it prior to a recast. It fought long and hard and was in perfect condition. I kept it for dinner.

I was exhausted. I had spent most of the day walking rather than fishing. I had seen the Sussex countryside at it’s best.

The south westerly breeze spread the orange bud scales over the surface of the lake. The Trout were cruising just underneath the debris looking for pond skaters and the occasional Olive. There were lots of Alder flies hatching from the grass but the breeze was not strong enough to knock them down onto the water. Fortunately there was a clear stretch of water under the high bank on the east side of the lake.

I had tied some imitations of the pond skaters that the fish were feeding on. I had confidence in the pattern. It would be great to get a couple of the fussy Trout on a custom designed fly.

I crept over the wet moss on my knees until I was beside the little seat. I used the Rio line and a twelve foot leader ending in a 2lb bs tippet. Good presentation was essential. Several fish were feeding close to me. I fired the pond skater imitation onto the water with a bow-and-arrow cast. I twitched the fly to mimic the real thing but although I thought it looked genuine, the Trout did not.

I swapped the fly for a Black Neoprene Spider and after several casts changed that for a palmered dry fly. As I sat watching, a natural Olive fluttered across the surface towards me and was immediately snatched by a good fish. I dragged my fly into the widening ripples but the Trout had moved away. I lost the fly on a branch and moved down the bank to the steps.

Two good fish were patrolling under the branches only ten feet from me. There was enough room for a side cast. I offered the fish a selection of flies but they just swirled underneath the fly and disappeared. I moved further down and stood next to the trunk of a big Beech tree.

I was close enough to the water to be able to dap the fly and shake the rod to give it a realistic buzz. A big fish took a natural less than a foot from my imitation, I twitched the fly to induce a take. There was another swirl but it didn’t convert into the thump on the rod that I expected. The wind suddenly increased and a hail storm forced me to shelter in the hut.

The storm moved away but I was cold and wet. I didn’t want to crawl around on the ground under the trees anymore. I went to the top lake and presented a variety of dry flies to the Trout. They were not impressed. Black clouds were building and another storm loomed over the woods. I signed out and left the lakes. Early morning or late evening is probably the only time I’m going to catch a spooky Trout at Little Bognor.