Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

The morning was hot and humid with a strong breeze, an unusual combination. The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky and I knew that it would be a waste of time fishing until the evening.

The sun had dropped behind the treeline and the wind had eased as I opened the gate. I guided the Defender down the steep, badly rutted and boulder strewn track to the floor of the Tavy valley. One of the mature oaks had fallen leaving a shallow scar in the bedrock, a casualty of the heavy rain and high winds.

The water rushed past the rocks making deep clunking sounds as the bigger stones moved around in their hollows. There was a distinct absence of fly life, no clouds of midges, no upwing flies. A buzzard greeted me and a kingfisher did an about turn as it saw me. A young dipper passed several times as I set up my rod. There were no fish rising and I decided to stick with a weighted nymph all evening.

The first deep pool took about thirty minutes to cover. The swirling leaves occasionally snagged the fly raising my heart rate for a few seconds. I saw a fish rise twice in the tail of the pool and anticipated a take. I missed. That fish triggered a memory of a previous visit when the trout were feeding in the glides and the deep pools were unproductive. I decided to concentrate on the slower, shallow water.

I hooked and landed a trout from midstream and another, better fish, from slightly deeper water further out. I moved downstream focusing on the glides, picking out sandy patches and boulders. I had three fish in quick succession, two of which put a good bend in the rod. The plan was working.

Down a long, wide, shallow stretch of water I repeated the process and the total crept up to seven trout ! That was enough. I’d only covered about two hundred yards of river and had caught fish from most of the glides and riffles.

There could be several reasons why the trout were in the shallower water; sea trout occupied the deeper pools, following several spates the trout were hungry and looking for food or the evening light enticed them out of deeper water. Who knows ?

The morning was still and overcast, perfect conditions for a couple of hours on a river. I had a bewildering choice of rivers and Beats. Every season I resolve to seek out an unfished Beat on the River Meavy. Unfished because of poor maps and even poorer map reading. I had all day to find the bridge, how hard could it be ? I ditched the map and pointed the Defender across the moor and down into the valley.

Instinct lead me to a muddy layby next to a bridge. I walked up the road and found a farmhouse, the name of which confirmed that I had arrived at my destination. I stood on the bridge and looked downstream. The true right bank was closely fenced and a ‘Private’ notice undermined my intention to walk the Beat.

I abandoned my attempt at fishing the Meavy and switched my thoughts to the River Plym. By chance, as I was driving away I met the landowner who confirmed that I could ignore the sign. However, the moment had passed and I was focused on fishing the River Plym at Bickleigh.

The Plym looked perfect and I knew that I had made the right choice. The water level was up a few inches but the water was not peat stained. The trees and bushes had been washed clean by the unrelenting August rain and there were no footprints or paw prints in the sand. I started at the bridge pool with a heavy nymph, flicking it under the arch and drifting it down and across. The deep pool failed to deliver.

I turned around and gradually extended each cast up the glide, dropping the nymph above rocks, down gullies in the bedrock and across the patches of coarse sand. On previous visits I’d used the glide to zone in, straighten the leader and line, before approaching the first big pool. I’d never had a take there despite carefully working the entire glide. I thought I saw a fish move but it could have been a leaf turning over in the current. After twenty or so casts I was ready to walk upstream. A trout took the fly and raced around the glide. I smiled as I released it in the shallows and chalked it up as a bonus fish.

I had a long chat with a Royal Marine having a brew beside the Commando Pool. How appropriate. We were each encroaching on the others special place. I half heartedly fished the pool down and across, hoping that I would not hook a tree or lose a trout, then left him to swim in the pool and chill out.

I caught a trout from a deep pool formed by a newly fallen ash tree. As I was about to leave the pool a sixth sense told me that a fish could be holding further downstream, undisturbed by the splashing. A couple of casts later I caught another fish which looked like a sea trout smolt. Magic.

I walked slowly downstream to the bridge and drove back to the cottage, content that I’d found the Meavy Beat and caught a few trout.

The village awoke to the sound of diggers, lorries and shouty workmen. The Government’s fast fibre gigabit target apparently applies to Dartmoor even though the pace of life here is slow. Waking early provided a unique opportunity to fish before the spaniels and bank holiday campers descended upon the moor.

It was cloudy and warm, rain was forecast for early afternoon, perfect conditions for a peaceful walk in the woods. The private, wooded valley ensured that wild swimmers and kids on their summer holiday would not spoil my morning.

The river drops steeply off the moor through a narrow valley with ancient woodland along both banks. The water winds around granite boulders, over coarse sand and through deep pools most of which hold trout. The mature oaks stand among rocks covered in bright green lichen. The tree canopy, overhanging the river, provides shade and shelter. The air is damp and the path through the woods is covered in last autumns leaves. The dim light, humidity and still air are a perfect environment for ferns, moss and fungi. The trees are dressed in ivy and the saturated moss on the rocks makes it difficult to sit down. It’s a mini, temperate rainforest. This pristine woodland has no litter, no graffiti or vandalism. It’s privately owned and in good hands.

My expectations of fish were low. I knew that I would spend the morning walking slowly, watching the river roar along in the dappled sunlight. The riverscape changed every few minutes as clouds passed over. Shafts of sunlight illuminated the white water and made the wet rocks glow. I started in the pool below the bridge, flicking the weighted nymph upstream under the arches. I saw a fish move and persevered. I bounced the nymph off the stone cutwater into the slack and the little trout obliged. I unhooked it in the shallows and watched it dash away none the worse for meeting me.

I stayed close to the water, clambering around rocks and tree trunks, dangling the nymph into riffles, letting it swing round into the slower water beside the bank. By the time I had reached the end of my walk, a couple more trout had grabbed the fly. I’d had three takes, hooked three fish and landed two and a half. One fell off as I reached out to release it. Does that count ? I was content, I had exceeded my expectations.

When I arrived back at the cottage I had to clamber over a heap of freshly excavated tarmac and a plastic barrier blocking the gate. Fruit cake and tea calmed me down.

There had been no rain for a couple of days and the river levels had dropped a bit. The river in the village was the colour of Fuller’s London Pride but clearer. There were no fish on the coarse granite sand in the pool below the bridge. It was hot, bright and humid, no need for a jacket.

Southwell IV had not seen action for a while, it’s length and compound taper would enable me to reach the pools along the far bank of the Tavy. The slow action finished with a kick which gave me a couple of extra yards.

I walked to the top of the Beat and tied on a Red Tag weighted with lead wire, not a bead. Beads are the Devils work. I remembered the trout below the rock that had grabbed my fly on a previous visit but it had moved on. At the end of the pool I sat and watched the water, waiting for a fish to rise. The small fly was lost in the turbulent water and I changed to a Teal Blue and Silver which would fish higher in the water and be more visible.

Visitors to the river blocked my path downstream. The motley group of cows and heifers were chaperoned by a Hereford bull which was clearly agitated by my presence. The cattle standing in the river looked like a pastoral English country scene by John Constable. Minus the hay wain. I waited until the cattle had finished drinking and had wandered back into the middle of the field, before wading to the next pool.

I found a couple of fish rising along the centre channel over a sandy riverbed. They were dashing about taking hatching midges. I clambered around a rock outcrop and flicked out a buzzer. There was no response, my rock climbing had put them down.

The long, wide glide looked like it would hold several trout. An old salmon croy pushed the water into the centre channel which was only a couple of feet deep. The bottom had been washed clean and the fissures in the bedrock provided shelter, a perfect holding place. I changed to a GRHE nymph and cast beyond the last rock in the croy. I was not concentrating and the take surprised me. The line curled away, the rod banged over and the trout was gone. It was a good fish and I felt bad about such a stupid mistake. Hours of fruitless effort had lulled me into zombie mode. I had messed up the only take of the afternoon. I will start with a GRHE and pay more attention next time.

The temperature in the Mediterranean reached the mid forties and wild fires burnt in Greece. It wasn’t that hot in Cornwall and for two days, we enjoyed the sun and the views of Talland Bay from our hotel terraces. The calm blue sea looked inviting, perhaps I’ll take a bass rod on our next visit.

After a long, boring drive back to Surrey, I watched the rain hammer down and the level of the garden pond rise. There would be no point in fishing the river. I postponed my visit to Petworth until Sunday when the hot sunny weather resumed.

I stopped at Stag Park to admire the landscape and the wild flowers. The fields had been sown with clover and the pink sheen extended to the near horizon, only interrupted by strips of cover crop. The scent from the lime trees around Little Springs was strong and the flowers were covered with bees and wasps.

The surface of the lakes was ruffled by a strong southerly breeze. No fish moved. The water temperature had remained high despite the heavy rain and the trout were inactive. I drove to Little Bognor where the springs cooled the lakes and the mature trees kept the sun off the water for most of the day.

Trout were rising repeatedly all over the lower lake. I looked for a black buzzer in my fly box and realised that I had forgotten to replace those lost on previous visits. I only had three, one of which had been chewed. I lost another in the brambles at the waters edge. After an hour, carefully presenting the black buzzer to cruising trout, I thought a change of colour was needed. Thirty minutes later, having tried green and red, I decided to revert to black. I flicked the black buzzer into the margin and a trout rose vertically from the depths to grab the fly. I lifted the fly out of it’s gaping mouth and laughed at my poor timing.

I moved along the bank, under the beech trees and sat on the damp moss near the waters edge. A fish rose to my right, behind a tree trunk. A tricky cast and a twitch of the leader, induced the trout to take and I gently lifted the rod to connect. The fish fought well in the cool water and swam out of the landing net after a short rest.

Rising fish had moved from under the trees to the the centre of the lake. I hid behind a bunch of ferns on the south bank and presented the buzzer to a series of rising fish. The trout moved away clearly unimpressed. The fish were chasing buzzers as they struggled to break through the surface film. I changed to a size 14 dry fly with a foam body. A trout swirled to drown the fly and took it sub-surface. Trout number two also left the landing net in good health.

I must tie a few black buzzers before my next visit to the lakes.