Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

I had been dreaming about the Itchen for six months. My last visit in 2019 was a one-off but it had been such a revelation that I had immediately taken a Rod for the 2020 season.

Nothing could be left to chance, my gear was cleaned and sorted. Repeatedly. A route map had been downloaded and a picnic hamper prepared. I set off with enough clutter for a family holiday. I had a full tank of diesel and plenty of toffees. A gentle south-westerly and clouds had been forecast, everything looked set for a memorable day. My expectations were high. A quiet day, beside gin clear water, a couple of nice  Trout and a relaxing lunch.

I arrived about 10:00am by which time the clouds had burnt off and the cool start to the day had turned into a baking hot morning with a breeze from the Sahara. I walked the beat, keeping out of sight, using the bushes and trees to hide from the spooky fish. The lack of clouds and con trails allowed the sun to penetrate down to the gravel, revealing monster fish, most of which were chub. I watched a six pounder on a patch of gravel occasionally pick up a shrimp or rise to intercept a passing nymph.

The water was fast and there was a lot of surface debris from the Willow trees. The fluffy seeds floated downstream amongst the froth from the riffles. It would be difficult for a fish to lock on to a dry fly.

This was not a day for messing around. I set up my rod and loaded my pockets with essential toffees. Intense concentration would be the order of the day with occasional breaks for food and drink. I spent an hour trying to tempt Mr. Chub from his patch of gravel, side casting from under a tree. Each time I managed to get the presentation right the fish melted away into deeper water.

I eventually found a feeding trout and presented a selection of tasty morsels. It rose, quickly checked out the series of flies and rejected them all. After each rejection I browsed my fly box for inspiration thereby giving the fish time to relax. A dark brown detached body Mayfly spinner eventually deceived the trout which dashed off downstream at an alarming speed and dived into a weedbed. Much laughter and tugging resulted in the capture of my first fish of the day. It was a wild trout about 1lb. I was surprised at how hard it had fought and wondered how I would control a trout four times the size.

The bodywork of the car was too hot to touch so I stood in it’s shade while having lunch. Quiche, warm sausage-and-bacon roll and ice cold orange juice refueled me and put me in a positive mood. It was too hot for wine or beer, I would have fallen asleep. Lunch over, I wandered around the beat searching for trout but the sun was high and they were all hiding under the weeds. I bothered a group of chub in a whirlpool on a bend. They all ignored my flies while continuing to intercept nymphs. I had a short siesta and moved upstream for the evening rise.

As I knelt under a Hawthorn taking photos of a resting Mayfly spinner, a good fish rose several times just upstream of a Willow bush. A passing swan put the fish down but my patience was rewarded when, fifteen minutes later, it resumed feeding. I flicked out what I thought was a good imitation of a spinner, the fish exploded through the surface like a missile and thrashed about before seeking deeper water under the Willow. I bullied the trout and kept it away from the tree roots. It was a pristine two pounder. I released the fish and compared my imitation to my photogenic friend on the Hawthorn leaf. I was embarrassed by my imitation which was an amateurish bodge compared to the delicate, symmetrical beauty of the real thing.

I moved upstream on the opposite bank and saw a rise under the far margin. A well presented Quality Street sedge fooled the trout, a small wild fish. A couple of minutes later a Walkers Sedge accounted for another two pounder. I struggled to draw the fish upstream against the current and had to walk down to net it. As the light dimmed the fish switched on and I covered a few fish each of which went down. I rested them but when they came back on the feed the outcome was the same. Either poor casting or the wrong fly was to blame. Probably both.

I’d had a great day. I need to improve my casting, devise more realistic fly patterns and consider using stronger tippets.

A cool breeze, baby blue sky and thin wispy clouds produced a light as intense as St Ives or St Tropez. Not ideal for trout fishing although it might encourage the Mayfly to hatch. I am usually so keen to get to the river that I am exhausted before the evening rise starts. To pass the afternoon away I messed about with an old telescopic landing net handle that I had found in a junk shop. I’d bought it for pennies because it was identical to the Efgeeco handle that I used as a boy. It was bent, not as telescopic as it used to be.

I arrived at Rotherbridge at 5:30pm and was immediately struck by the lack of any wildlife. It was quiet, no birds or insects and no rising fish. I ambled upstream, keeping well back from the river, looking for any signs. The river looked very tidy. The winter floods had washed the debris out of the low hanging branches and had scoured the margins. The water had a dark green tint and looked sterile.

A flow deflector had been built in the New Riffle and a couple of members were fishing from the opposite bank so I moved upstream, pausing on the bends to observe the longer stretches of water. The fields to the north of the river had been wrapped in countryside-cling-film and the irrigation machines were spurting water on multi coloured salad crops. Madness.

I paid particular attention to my favourite fish holding places, the familiar Alder trees and back eddies where the sandy bank had collapsed. I stood beside the Overhanging Tree where I had always managed to winkle out a fish. After a few minutes a fish rose in the usual place, in the fast water along the far bank, under the lowest branch. It rose a couple of times, small splashy rises, it looked like a wild fish taking duns. My first couple of side casts were amateurish, I fired the detached body Mayfly low and hard and it landed heavily. Not a good start. I rested the fish then flicked the fly across the pool, close to the far bank. The fish rose, I lifted too quickly and cursed. My first take of the season botched.

I walked back downstream and sat on the sand opposite another Alder at the head of a long pool. I had forgotten the toffees. As I was resting a spinner fell and perched on the electric fence behind me. While I was taking its portrait a fish rose at the end of a trailing branch. It took three Mayflies in quick succession and looked like a good prospect. I took much too long tying on a small spinner imitation and by the time I presented the fly the fish had stopped rising.

I waited patiently, occasionally drying the fly on my trousers, drifting it down the far bank but either the fish had swapped lies or I had put it down. I walked back to the bridge very slowly expecting to find a rising fish under the trees but the sun was low and the evening rise had finished. The evening had shown me that I needed to up my game for my first visit to the Itchen on Thursday. Basic errors would not be tolerated by the shy chalk stream brownies.

 

I listened to a Ludwig van cello concerto with Jacqueline Du Pre during the drive to the river. I could listen to the music in the hushed cabin of the motorway-cruiser, chosen in order to boost the battery charge. The soft leather and air conditioning were a change from the noisy, drafty Defender. Normal noisy, drafty service would be resumed on Friday.

I was relaxed and hungry when I arrived at Ladymead. I had lunch on the tailgate in the bright sunshine. It was 1:00pm before I filled my pocket with toffees and wandered around the headland to the river. The water looked perfect and I stood on the bridge scanning the tail end of the skimpy weedbeds for signs of Trout. There were none. A kingfisher arrowed underneath me. The river was deserted, only the wind broke the silence.

The pool at Ladymead had been rebuilt during the winter floods. A huge sandbank had appeared along the north bank and a sheer cliff scoured out on the opposite side. Hundreds of tons of sand had been moved about. The main current had increased in speed and a bar with a steep drop-off, ran the entire length of the pool. It looked like a good place for trout and chub. I worked a black spider down the pool and explored the upslope of the sandbank. I was tense, expecting a thump on the rod. Nothing. I wandered upstream and explored a few pools before deciding to spend the rest of the afternoon at Little Bognor.

Southwell II, the ‘Chew Valley’, continued my #caneonly approach to slow fishing. The rod is lighter than its length would suggest. I don’t like short rods. It has a compound taper which gives a nice flick at the end of the cast and suits a light line. The lower lake at Little Bognor looked stunning and the tall trees reduced the strong wind to a flukey breeze. Perfect.

I sat in my usual place under the beeches and watched a couple of nice trout cruise along the margin sipping down midges. A few fish flashed under the surface, turning a golden brown as they rolled over an ascending buzzer. The fly choice was obvious. I slumped into the new ferns and flicked a slow sinking buzzer under a bush to my left. I was happy to wait for a cruising fish to return. Eventually a good fish took a buzzer close to my imitation. It looked at my fly, sneered and drifted away. The sunlight and ripples prevented me from seeing the leader at any distance from the bank. Fish were rising along the shaded west bank and the water was calm, it was time to move.

I crept along the bank and sat on the bone dry grass behind a clump of ferns. I drifted the buzzer from left to right in an arc about ten yards from the bank. Fish were moving but the leader remained slack. I swapped to a lighter tippet and almost immediately the leader slid under the surface. It was a dark overwintered fish about a pound which I returned. Presentation is everything.

I was not prepared. I remained in grass cutting mode, a gardening zombie. My mind was locked down. Although the rods and reels were super clean, I’d forgotten how to fish. Opening Day II felt strange, the cold North wind was in stark contrast to the May bank holiday heat wave. At 5:00am the air was chilled, the sky was completely void of clouds and vapour trails. The Defender shone in the early morning sun, it had been washed and serviced ready for action.

Last year on 13 May I’d spent the day at the lakes experimenting with Mayfly patterns. This year, although I’d had months to tie new flies, I hadn’t been in the mood and I felt under-gunned. I have hundreds of flies but when I look in the boxes I can never find what I want.

Where to fish? I would let the Mayfly decide. There would be a hatch at the lakes around noon. I might then spend the evening at the river, the top Beat was calling, nobody would have fished that beat for over six months.

I arrived at the lakes at lunchtime and spent too long chatting. The cold North wind swept down Little Springs funneled by the tall trees. The few Mayfly that were hatching tumbled along the surface of the water and as they became airborne, were snatched away.

Southwell III needed christening. I planned to explore the shallows and the edges of the weed beds with a Mayfly nymph. I started between the two Alder trees at the top of the lake but the water was coloured and there were no signs of fish. I sat on the grass beside the first point and flicked a nymph over the Potamogeton natans. The fly line occasionally slipped under a leaf but I was confident that I would get a take and the odd snag was a minor inconvenience.

The rod was more powerful than I had imagined, it had the tell-tale, crisp, steely feel of all Southwell rods and handled the #4 Cortland with ease. I had a tap on the line after thirty minutes working the fly around the weedbed but failed to connect. I was cold and found it difficult to concentrate. An hour later the line slid away and I lifted into a good fish which thrashed on the surface for a few seconds before escaping.

I sat in the Defender, had a toffee and warmed up. After a walk around Great Springs I sat on the bench and worked a weighted nymph alongside the brickwork. I saw a fish rise on my left and dropped the nymph in that direction. A few seconds later I lifted into what felt like a small trout. It burst into life when I put a bit of pressure on. The blue trout swam a figure-of-eight around the swimming ladder, rested while I untangled the line and then dived deep into a weed bed. It was about three pounds but I’ll never know the exact weight.

The wind dropped a bit and the sun came out. I walked around Little Springs and decided not to wait until the evening, I was too tired and cold. The south east corner of the lake was Mayfly soup, the margins were full of nymph shucks, crippled duns and emergers.

It had been a great afternoon. I hadn’t made it to the river but I had christened the rod.

 

My trout fishing season is over and five months of impending boredom threaten my sanity. I’ve read a few old fishing books, cleaned my reels several times and tied hundreds of flies. I still have flies that I tied over forty years ago. The rows of Peter Ross, Dunkeld and Invicta look lovely in my classic Wheatley fly box. Works of art that have never caught a trout. They never will. It’s the scruffy nymphs in the tiny plastic hook box that catch the trout.

Buying another rod interrupts the monotony of winter. The heart-pounding guilt as I click on the ‘Confirm Payment’ button. Waiting for the postman. Wondering if I can sneak the rod tube into the corner of the study without being caught. The excitement is short lived. The rod arrives and I practice casting at the windfall apples on the lawn. They ignore my offering. It’s not as satisfying as a chalk stream. Winter drags and my impatience grows. Grayling fishing is an option but it’s just an excuse to catch trout out of season and not for me, I’d rather wait until April.

As a nipper I kept a fishing diary in a school exercise book. I drew secret maps and noted the weights of all my record fish. I vaguely recall some of the entries, days spent carp fishing beside the lake in the forest when my monsters weighed 3lbs not 30. I wish I hadn’t thrown it in the bin, de-cluttering is not always a good thing. A belated pang of conscience and the boredom of early retirement, prompted me to start another diary which has added the fourth dimension to my fishing. Time. I am more observant, always looking for photo opportunities and making mental notes about the wildlife. I sit beside the river watching the water, in no hurry to cast a line. Slow Fishing.

Each year I battle with Microsoft Word and transform the text into a format fit for the book binders. While editing my 2019 diary I recalled the long hot summer, the beautiful scenery, wild trout and sunsets. Three hundred pages and forty thousand words of memories to browse while the rivers are out of bounds and the lakes frozen over.
My old fishing books take me to rivers and lakes but the memories are not mine. The authors and some of the rivers are long gone. The fishing classics are a pleasant distraction but nostalgia is a form of neurosis that I can do without. I search for something to occupy my thoughts, something I can look forward to. Something to dream about. Nevermind the past, what about the future ?

A bottle of single malt is the answer. A comfy armchair, two fingers of scotch and I settle down and begin my dream. I have chosen my fantasy destination, the River Derwent in Cumbria. I packed my bag and left the house before dawn. Pure fantasy. The car doesn’t break down, the three hundred mile journey on the deserted M6 only takes a few minutes and I’m there in time to see the sun rise over Skiddaw. The river looks beautiful and I have miles of the swiftest flowing river in the country all to myself. The Herdwick sheep ignore me unlike the bolshy heifers down South. They stand and stare. They intimidate me into moving on. There are no cattle here to bully me.

I nervously thread the fly line through the rings of the Sage 10′ 6″ 3# that I found in Oxfam for £5 and walk downstream through the morning mist. The trout are rising, I knew they would be. A few upwing flies are hatching and I catch several beautiful wild fish on a dry fly before adjourning to the pub for lunch. After a long siesta in the afternoon sun, the evening rise produces a few more trout. The journey home is brief and uneventful, a lorry driver smiles and waves as I hurtle past. There are no muddy boots to clean or nets to dry. As I relax with another scotch, I recall a memorable day. The difficult fish behind a rock, the Osprey drifting overhead and the distillery just across the field. I threw perfect loops all day, hooked no trees and only lost a couple of trout. A perfect day.

I might go to the Derwent again tomorrow evening and try for a sea trout. Alternatively, I’ll hunt barracuda with a fly rod on a sandy beach in Barbados. I might see you there, I’m the guy effortlessly casting to the edge of the reef some fifty yards offshore. On the other hand I might drive to Cornwall in the Defender and fish for trout on Bodmin Moor. No, that’s stretching my imagination too far, I’d only get as far as Winchester before I had to call the RAC.

I am spoilt for choice. I can flick through the volumes of my diary and recall the memories of seasons past, or close my eyes and transport myself into the future beside the river of dreams. The fantasies are so real I become confused, my memories and dreams merge. It’s a long winter, I’ll need a case of scotch.

This diary entry was published in the Winter 2019 edition of Fly Culture magazine, probably the best fly fishing magazine in the world ! While we are ‘locked down‘ and unable to fish, I have more time for memories and dreams.