It was a miserable, drizzly morning but by lunch time the weather had changed and a bright, warm afternoon with a gentle breeze summoned me to Petworth. I sat beside the lake, chatted for a couple of hours and saw a few fish but they were not feeding. Petworth was deserted but the river was not. By 3:00pm several members had already visited Rotherbridge. I stood in the middle of the bridge and watched the water flowing gently over the sand. I saw three good Trout under a Willow tree just above the bridge. They were cruising, feeding fish and I decided to focus on them.
I sat on the long, warm dry grass about twenty yards above the bridge and methodically worked the near margin, then explored midstream around the clumps of weed. I was surprised not to get a take and changed the fly to a leaded size 14 GRHE nymph. I extended the line to cover the far bank run anticipating immediate success. Nothing. I assumed that I had spooked the fish and moved upstream resolving to return later.
I flicked the fly under the far bank trees and bushes, letting the leader swing round so that the fly searched under the branches. I became a little frustrated at the lack of response but remained calm, confident that the rod would slam over sooner or later.
As I worked the fly under the far bank there was a big splash about fifty yards downstream. I thought it was a Sea Trout and walked downstream to check it out. I sat behind the rushes and watched as the big fish launched itself into the air twice. It was only twenty feet away and although I was sure it was a Sea Trout, I flicked the nymph into the ripples. On the second cast the fish swirled as I lifted the fly off. On the third cast the fish thumped into the fly and went on a long run downstream. Throughout the battle the fish seemed to grow in size. It was a struggle to land and I had to nurse it for ten minutes before it swam away. Wow, what a fantastic Trout, 4lbs of angry brownie. I didn’t want to continue fishing but another splashy Trout below the bridge distracted me on the way back to the Defender. Only for a couple of minutes.
I leant on the gate and watched the river, sipping a Red Bull and nibbling chocolate. The Rother season continues into October but I would be in Devon and unlikely to visit Petworth again before the end of the season. It was good to end on a high note.
My final trip of the season to the Itchen came round quicker than I had expected. The Summer weather had been kind, I was only rained-off once. Generally the water and weather conditions had been excellent and I’d had the opportunity to learn a lot about chalkstream fishing. I only missed one day at the very start of the season and I had been invited to swap beats on a couple of days to take full advantage of the fishery. The crystal clear water and water meadows were uplifting, an insight into how fishing must have been on many other rivers during the early 20th Century.
Autumn arrived on 24 September. The chill wind turned the willow leaves over and the trees looked silver, a sure sign of rain. The rain arrived as I stood behind the car setting up my rod. The strong upstream wind soon blew the rain away and I could see the Trout. The water was slightly cloudy but I counted about a dozen good fish in the top pool. Quite a few looked like Sea Trout, the lighter coloured fish were active, taking the occasional sedge. For two hours I watched, selected feeding fish and offered the usual patterns. Mild interest was shown in sedge and Daddy-Long-Legs but none of the fish bothered to take close look. I switched to a Black Gnat and immediately hooked a good fish. It took a lot of line and nearly reached the pile of debris trapped below the footbridge. Thirty minutes later I had caught another two Trout about 2lbs each, both on the same fly.
I wandered down the right bank, under the trees, looking for feeding fish on the patches of gravel but the sky was grey and in the poor light it was difficult to see a target. I found a good fish in the edge near the end of the Beat and detoured around the marginal plants to get below it. I flicked the fly into the run several times anticipating a take but when I peeped around the rushes, the Trout had gone.
I crossed to the left bank and found three fish on gravel above the big hatch pool. They were rising near a Willow tree and several of my flies were sacrificed in attempts to reach them. One fish reacted to a sedge and a Daddy, turning and following the flies downstream but veered away on closer inspection. I returned to the top pool and soon had another beautifully marked fish in the landing net, the best of the day. My self-imposed four fish limit had been hard work but when I had presented the right fly without lining the fish, they had responded well.
It was good to end my season on the Itchen with such an enjoyable day. I will be able to relive the memories during the winter months.
It was my last chance to fish on Dartmoor before the end of the season. The dog walkers were out in force but I climbed over the fence into the privacy of the wood. I’d seen a black shadow in the pool under the bridge and the fish was feeding. I sat on a log covered with soft green lichen and threaded the line through the rod rings. I used a short tippet and a size 14 nymph. The dark shadow shot across the pool, grabbed the fly and raced under the arch of the bridge. It was my biggest Dartmoor brownie, about 8ozs.
Each pool contained a Trout and I either landed it or lost it. I caught about five fish and in some pools I had several takes. I realised that I had to anticipate the take and be ready to tap home the hook. Concentration was required. A couple of the takes, fishing downstream, were just slow draws, easily mistaken for weed or an Autumn leaf.
The sun was warm and bright, it illuminated the Hazel and Oak leaves. Acorns dropped into the pools from the centuries old trees. The foam in the throat of the pools glowed white and the various coloured rocks on the river bed looked like a tartan rug. The landscape looked like Spring except for the bracken which showed rusty brown under the tree canopy.
The trip was a fitting end to my season on Dartmoor. I’d not seen anyone, I’d caught a few beautiful fish and had spent three hours in unspoilt Devon countryside. It doesn’t get any better than that.
It had suddenly dawned on me that the Devon Trout season was about to end. The weather was good, the rivers were in perfect Autumn condition and the pub was closed. It was time to go fishing. Next season was six months away and it would be a long winter. I grabbed a rod and my bag before indecision delayed my departure from the cottage and headed towards the river. No great thought had gone into my destination and a few minutes later I was coaxing the car down a steep track into the river valley. The sun no longer reached the valley floor, the air was cool and a zillion midges were hatching. A few sedges lumbered into the air only to be snatched by one of the Grey Wagtails.
I chose the fly pattern that I’d had success with on the Plym the previous day, the Copper Ribbed Rabbits Fur (CRRF). As I walked down the track to the Middle Beat I was confident that if I could find a fish, it would take the nymph. I sat on the path beside the throat of a long riffle and flicked the fly into the fast water. The leader drew round and the fly fished deep where the riffle widened and lost speed. There was a tap on the rod and I lifted the fly into the tree behind me. Not a good start. I tied on another fly and worked the water. I connected with the third take and released the little jewel of a Trout before moving downstream to the next pool.
With no trees behind me I cast down and across, feeding a foot of line each cast to cover fresh water. At the tail of the pool beside a rock, the line grew heavy and a good fish swirled. It was on the hook long enough for me to judge its weight. It would have been my best Dartmoor brownie. I fished some of the pools in the middle of the Beat but the light was going and I wanted to get out of the valley before dark. The traction control struggled on the wet rocks but I eventually made it onto flat ground at the expense of two members who graciously reversed up the hill to allow me free passage. I wished them luck with the Sea Trout in the bigger pools of the Top Beat.
The warm rocks had become wet as the moisture in the cold night air condensed like warm breath on a frosty morning. During the ascent out of the valley I’d pushed the Volvo to the limit of its off-road capability and I resolved to bring the Defender to Devon next season.
Heavy rain clouds anchored themselves to the granite tors and remained there until the afternoon. The high moor was shrouded in mist until the warm south westerly summoned enough strength to blow it away. The morning rain kept the dog walkers indoors and freshened up the rivers. The bankside trees were showing signs of Autumn and a steady line of leaves floated down the River Walkham, swirling in the pools, turning and flashing like small Trout.
I was spoilt for choice. The middle of Dartmoor would be deserted but I would be soaked to the waist by the wet bracken and furze before I could cast a line. The moor looked beautiful and very photogenic. That might justify a soaking. The deep river valleys would be dark and misty but the steep rocky tracks were difficult to navigate in the wet even in a 4×4. The AA don’t recover vehicles deep in the forest, miles from the nearest tarmac. It was definitely not worth the risk.
By early afternoon the rain had moved away towards Dorset and the sun had broken through the clouds. I’d decided on the River Plym. I smiled as I drove over the narrow stone bridge, pausing in the middle, the river looked exactly as I had imagined, crystal clear water carrying a patchwork of orange and brown leaves. I chose a size 14 nymph made mainly of rabbit fur with a copper rib and nylon fibres for tail filaments. It was a general representation of an Olive nymph or shrimp.
The first pool produced a good take and a small fish soon came to hand. Further upstream I prepared to search another pool when a Sea Trout about 2lbs leapt vertically and crashed back into the tail water. It jumped again a couple of times and I changed the fly to a black and silver spider. For thirty minutes I cast down and across, anticipating a savage take and screaming reel. Nothing happened. A small fish followed the fly but sheered away in the shallows. I found another Trout in a fast run but it came unstuck.
A good Sea Trout revealed itself in the next big pool but I couldn’t get a take. It appeared that the resident brownies were unsettled by the presence of their bigger, ocean going, brethren. Half way up the Beat the heat and humidity got to me and I returned to the car for water. The river had been kind to me once again both in its beauty and the fishing it provided. In two weeks it will be the end of the fishing season in Devon, I must visit the River Plym again during that time.