Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

It had been the driest March since 1961 and the spate rivers on the western edge of Dartmoor were low. Rain was forecast for the weekend.

I had a plan. Wait until dusk. The sky was blue, the sunlight intense and it was 20 degrees at lunchtime. The trout would not be feeding until the sun was off the water.

I travelled light and spent a long time beside the pool near the top of the beat. I missed the first take because I was looking at a pheasant. I also missed the second. Half way down the pool I changed flies, several times. There was no response. A trout rose and I tempted it with several midge imitations. Nothing. I had left the box of dry flies at home.

I moved downstream and found another trout rising behind a boulder in midstream. I put on a light tippet and immediately lost a nymph on the black weed that covers every submerged rock.

After sitting in the sun for a while, reviewing the evenings proceedings, I walked slowly back up the hill and drove home. Dinner in the pub completed a relaxing day.

The evenings are best, I must remember to take the box of dry flies with me next time.

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I waited until the sunlight became less intense and the gale force wind had dropped a little. This season I planned to focus my attention on the Tavy, not wander around from river to river looking for greener grass. The steep rocky track down into the valley had not improved, I left the Defender on a slight slope, I didn’t want to be stranded by Land Rover electrickery approaching darkness.

The pool below the dead tree looked good, the water level was slightly higher than normal, a few leaves and alder catkins swirled in the current and the wind was mainly downstream.

The Sage #3 and a size 13 GRHE nymph on a light tippet gave me confidence. The line flicked out nicely and the fly landed with a plop that helped me see the start of its drift in the broken water.

I worked the nymph carefully, looking for movements in the line. As the fly swung through a deep pool between two dustbin sized rocks, the drift stalled and I lifted into a small but lively trout. I smiled when it wriggled free. The evening had started well.

Further downstream the river widened and the wind swirled around which made line control difficult. I worked the shallows and had a couple of takes both of which I missed.

By the time I reached the pool under the big oak tree I had started to lose concentration. It was time for a slow walk back up the hill. That small trout had lifted my spirits, I hadn’t expected to catch much because the water temperature is still low. Settled warm weather is forecast, the fish will soon be looking up.

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The Devon season opened a couple of weeks ago but I was chasing rainbows in Sussex. March has been dry, Dartmoor still holds the winter rains and the rivers are a good level.

River Meavy

I took my rod for a walk from Shaugh Bridge to Goodameavy but didn’t take it out of the bag. The scenery was a distraction, the water was cold and there were no signs of trout. A few blue winged olives and Grannom were fluttering about, it won’t be long before the water warms and the trout look up.

River Tavy

I fished the River Tavy lower beat, there were plenty of upwing flies hatching from the shallows but despite the warm sunshine, the trout remained hidden. I felt sure my nymph would be grabbed but it wasn’t to be. Himalayan balsam shoots covered the sandy beaches and primroses decorated the woods.

River Walkham

I’d visited the lower River Walkham in previous seasons but my way had been barred by, fallen trees, a rock wall and wet stones covered in slippery moss. I’d turned back long before the end of the beat. A Saturday work party, armed with chain saws, cleared the lumber and I saw the best pools for the first time. I will return in a few weeks when the water has warmed up.

. . . – – – . . .

A perfect day. Grey overcast, warm and a gentle southerly breeze.

I’d caught fish at Great Springs and Little Bognor and thought that I would visit a different lake. The scenery was certainly different, 400kv made my rod tingle at 50 herz which was a little unsettling.

I hadn’t been to Lower Figgs for a while and I was pleased to see that the surroundings had matured since it was re-excavated. There was plenty of cover for the angler and I could just see weed beds developing which would surely hold groups of fish.

I chose the open ground and cast into the deep channel near the island. The GRHE was seized as it was sinking and the leader shot forwards. I’d hooked a trout first cast. I wondered about the fly, it was a good imitation of a shrimp, an olive nymph and a pinhead fry but also resembled a trout pellet ? I glanced towards the landing net and the fish wriggled off the hook. On the third cast I repeated the loss and made a mental note to ignore the net until the fish was ready.

The pod of rainbows were hanging about over deep water and a third fish took the fly with a gut wrenching bang on the rod. I bullied the fish a little and released it successfully, it was about 3lbs and had fought hard. A perfectly conditioned fish.

The pod of fish broke up and the fish retreated around the side of the island. Extra long casting, which surprised me, I’d forgotten about the double haul, reached another fish which became airborne at twenty yards. I found another couple of fish, cruising over deep water and decided to stop fishing, four fish is enough for me.

I wandered through the woods and paused at Luffs, a couple of members had bent rods. I had a cup of tea and a biscuit on the bench at Great Springs. My March visits to the lakes had all been successful. When I returned from Devon in early May I would be able to visit the Rother and use a mayfly for the difficult brownies.

. . . – – – . . .

Last weekend, on opening day, I had the pleasure of watching my grandson catch two trout with only a small amount of help from me. He will soon be fishing independently. I also enjoyed having the lakes to myself on Sunday afternoon. I had slouched on the wooden bench waiting for the fly line to slowly draw tight, interrupting its drift across the breeze. It was easy fishing, I knew where to fish and how to present the nymph. Arthur Cove documented the method in his book ‘My Way with Trout’ nearly forty years ago.

I knew how to fish at Little Bognor. The weather pattern had changed. The chilly north east wind and bright skies had been replaced by a dull overcast, a warm southerly breeze and showers. Perfect fishing conditions. I wanted to visit the lakes to check on the old Spanish chestnut tree, for a change of scenery and to catch an overwintered brownie.

I knew where to fish, the fly pattern to use and how it should be fished. Watching the leader for subtle movements, a slow sinking black buzzer and a very stealthy approach had never let me down. Most anglers keep away from the overhanging trees because the casting is tricky. The line shy trout hide under the overhanging branches, away from the disturbance.

I was surprised to see that the estate forestry team had thinned out the magnificent beech and chestnut wood on the slope to the west of the lakes. It was a professional job that let in light but it had changed the intimate, warm atmosphere around the upper lake. The lower lake had not changed, a buzzard mewed at me while soaring over the tree tops.

The churned up leaf mould on the now open path gave off very earthy smells, it will be a few years before the wood turns green again. The bluebells and primroses will benefit from the sunlight. I was relieved to see that my favourite tree had escaped the chainsaw.

Rex Vicat Cole sketched the dead Spanish Chestnut tree and included the sketch in his book, British Trees, first published in 1907. The tree had been dead for a considerable time when he sketched it and must therefore have first sprouted leaves just after the English civil war in the mid 17th century. It’s roots are firmly embedded in a stone wall and it is protected from gales by the steep sided valley. I’m not a tree hugger but I don’t like thoughtless chainsaw vandalism.

I crouched down, away from the water, to flick a buzzer at passing trout. The heavy tippet was visible in the clear water and after an hour I changed it and rubbed off the shine with damp moss. I caught three trout, one of which was fin perfect and may have been a wild fish. I eventually lost the buzzer attempting an impossible cast through a vertical slot in the overhanging branches.

The number and size of the fish was unimportant, Sir Edward Elgar’s magic trees had been preserved by sensitive forestry management and all was well.

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