Prolonged rain filled the river at Petworth, according to the gauge it was up thirty two inches. It was unfishable. I visited Little Bognor, it was still raining. I failed to connect with the three trout that took my dry fly. I filled my head with fishing plans on the long journey back to Devon.
Dartmoor was green, even on the high moor. Frequent showers had kept the rivers up and there were reports of sea trout and a few salmon. I had breakfast early and chose the Sage #3 from the rod cupboard. My favourite beat on the Tavy awaited. The early morning sun was intense in a baby blue sky and as I looked south, downstream, I regretted leaving my hat at home.
There were hundreds of pheasant poults roaming around on the track down into the valley and I left the Defender on flat ground above the river to avoid disturbing them. The top of the beat looked good and I sat there for a while getting used to the rhythm of the rod.
The river was a couple of inches higher than normal but there were no leaves or twigs to snag. The shoot had mown the bracken, Himalayan balsam and Japanese Knotweed to the ground along the true left bank removing the cover and spreading the invasive species.
I focused on the usual holding places but there was no response from the trout. I retraced my steps and had a cup of tea with bacon rolls in the cottage, a perfect end to the morning.
The end of another month. The close season loomed. I hadn’t been fishing for over three weeks. I had been imprisoned in the cottage while the roof was replaced. Scaffold poles, offcuts of batten and chips of slate had been taken away, peace had returned to the garden. Fishing plans were made over an evening glass of shiraz. A visit to a Devon river, an adventure at a secret lake and a long delayed trip to Sussex were crammed into a few short days. Tackle was sorted and checked. A cake was purchased. Nothing was overlooked.
A Devon River
The Defender protested at having been ignored for three weeks but eventually spluttered into life. An Italian tune-up along the main road cleaned the engine out. The river Tavy was slightly above normal summer level and had a pale amber tint courtesy of the recent showers. Sycamore leaves covered the path and Himalayan balsam seed pods exploded as I pushed past. It was very humid and the air was still. Ideal conditions.
The early morning mist turned to drizzle, then rain. I ignored the rain until my jacket was soaked before sheltering under a large oak tree. The long, wide glide mid-beat usually produces a take or two, sometimes a trout. Despite the perfect conditions and my best efforts, there was no response. I walked past the fast water and settled into the drainage ditch where I landed last seasons monster. The river was clear and I could see the faults in the bedrock where the trout hide. The back cast was tricky but I avoided the trees either side of me and drifted the nymph through the deeper water in midstream. I visited the still water above the weir but it looked barren. After a few token casts into the slack water below the rapids, I lost the nymph on a rock and called it a day. I was fishless, wet, hot and tired but I had enjoyed myself.
A Very Secret Lake
Weeks ago, while discussing the merits of split cane rods and Mitchell reels over a pint, I had passed the traditional angling test and was invited for a day’s fishing at a very special place. I had been sworn to secrecy. Guests are not invited back if they reveal the whereabouts of this little gem buried deep in a beech wood. I first read about the lake over thirty years ago, I read the spooky mysteries and classic angling tales many times. I had never contemplated fishing the lake, particularly as I didn’t know its location.
The tackle was prepared days in advance, I spooled new line onto the Hardy Altex. My first view of the woods reminded me of the magic trees at Fittleworth, ancient paths covered with crunchy beech mast and the musty smell of peat. I settled into a sheltered gap in the trees on the eastern side of the lake knowing that the late afternoon sun would see the fish drifting my way. The pristine woodland and the lake, unmolested by work parties, was unique. Few truly unspoilt places remain. I caught nothing until the fish arrived for afternoon tea. Four fish were fooled into taking and two landed. Unmarked, wild fish that rarely see a landing net. I had maintained my concentration for nearly twelve hours and left the lake exhausted but full of memories.
A Sussex River
I couldn’t remember my last visit to the Western Rother, I was out of touch with it’s moods and lacked confidence. The week of blanks recorded in the signing-in book didn’t help. It was very windy with no sign of rain. The grass had been mown short and was dry. I strung up the Hardy #4, the lithe Sage didn’t have the power to drag big brownies out of the weeds. The rod felt stiff and it took me a while to adjust but the muscle memory soon returned and the casts became more accurate.
There were no flies hatching and a deep sunk nymph was my only option. I concentrated on the shade beneath the overhanging alder trees and along the sides of the dense streamer weeds. I walked slowly downstream methodically prospecting all the likely fish holding places without any response from the trout. I paused above an alder where flood debris had gathered around the roots, diverting the current towards me. My first cast was good and as I started to lift the fly off the water I noticed a slight boil, a mere wave of a pectoral fin. I quickly cast above the lie and within seconds there was a violent take and a big trout dashed off downstream.
The fish headed towards the near bank and I bent into it before it reached the bushes. The trout felt securely hooked. The Sage #3 would not have had the backbone to hold the fish. Good decision. It was a nice clean fish, about two pounds, which deserved to have it’s portrait taken. It bolted out of the landing net none the worse for having seen me. It was the only trout caught on that beat for a week. My confidence had been boosted, it had been a very rewarding afternoon.
Little Bognor
The old estate lake, a stone lined mill pond, reminded me of the beech wood I had wandered through earlier in the week. The beech mast crunched underfoot and the mature trees kept the wind and sun off the water. A very relaxing place at which to introduce a young man to brown trout.
We had a plan. Stealth and good presentation would produce a trout or two. A small, black, neoprene buzzer was the fly of choice on a 3lb tippet. We crept along the bank and ambushed the trout in the margins as they drifted past about two feet below the surface. The first fish was hooked in the scissors and put up a spirited fight. We carefully nursed the fish in the landing net and it swam away confidently.
The second trout took a dry black gnat with a white neoprene wing and dashed along the bank tangling the line in the overhanging branches. After teasing it free, the battle continued in open water and the fish, about 2lbs, was released in the shallows. We left the lake and celebrated at a service station with warm sausage rolls and fizzy drinks. It seemed an appropriate way for a young man to mark his success.
I had crammed a lot of fishing into a few days. The varied scenery and fishing methods had maintained my concentration and boosted my hopes for the rest of the season.
My day started at 6:30am which is a ridiculous time to have breakfast. A grey, overcast, dry warm morning was perfect for a few hours flicking a nymph about on the river. As I drove down the narrow lane brambles and ferns scraped and screeched along both sides of the Defender adding to the patina. I looked down through the trees at the river, fifty feet below the track, the water level was normal and a good flow pushed through the riffles.
I normally start at the top of the beat but I had a hunch that the wide glide above the old weir would produce a fish. I started with a size 12 weighted GRHE nymph and covered a couple of rising trout. They ignored the fly. I drifted a black gnat over the rise but that was also ignored. I reverted to the nymph, the 12′ leader and tippet ensured that I didn’t line the fish. I’m never sure what trout think the GRHE is representing. It could be a stonefly nymph, a shrimp or a pinhead fry. I knew there were trout in the glide and persevered. The over dressed size 12 was changed for a sparsely dressed size 14 and a couple of casts later a nice fish took the fly just under the surface.
I crept along the path to a long pool near the top of the beat. The main current raced along the far bank. A back eddy between two overhanging sycamore trees was covered in white foam. A difficult cast and instant drag. I dropped the nymph into the eddy and immediately mended the line. A good trout took the fly and battled hard in the fast water, it took line off the reel. The slack water beside the beach on the near bank failed to produce another fish.
I wandered back along the footpath, uprooting many Himalayan Balsam plants, for lunch at the Defender. I had a sandwich and cookies before walking downstream to fish the run under a big oak tree. I was tired and easily distracted. I felt myself going through the motions, not concentrating. It was time to leave. Back at the cottage, the new roof was nearing completion. Rain was forecast for the following day.
I spent a Saturday morning uprooting Himalayan balsam. I saw lots of rising fish but I had deliberately left my gear at home. I was too tired to go back in the afternoon but planned to fish that part of the Beat a few days later. When I returned the river was high and a bit coloured. I had a nice walk in the woods listening to the bird song.
I also visited a Beat on the Tavy that I had never fished before. I knew that access to that part of the river was difficult and left the cottage intending to explore the Beat from top to bottom without the distraction of a rod. I left the Defender in a car park and allowed my instincts and the sound of rushing water, to guide me away from the urban environment towards the cool, tree-lined stretch of river. I was surprised to find a peaceful oasis only a few minutes walk from a retail park.
The access to the top part of the Beat was good but wading in the margins was the only way to explore the long riffles and glides further downstream. I had chosen wellies ! I walked to the end of the Beat across the fields, the bottom pool and run-in looked lovely. I must return with a rod.
Having walked two Beats on the Tavy with no chance of a fish, I decided to end the trout drought with a visit to my favourite Beat. The hottest day of the year, 32 degrees, was probably not a good day for trout but I felt confident that if I curbed my impatience and started late in the afternoon, all would be well.
I slammed the back door of the Defender at 3:00pm and walked upstream to my usual place on the rocky beach below the reincarnated tree. The tall trees on the far side of the deep valley cast shadows right across the river. After a few casts at the top of the pool I had a knock on the rod, somebody was at home. Although I concentrated on presentation and worked the nymph around the large, submerged granite boulders, I was unable to convince a fish to take.
I wandered down the margins, covering the flat water below riffles and eventually hooked a fish which looked and behaved like a small sea trout. It threw the hook. I smiled. Hooking a fish was progress. I eventually caught a trout from the eddy behind a very large mid-stream rock.
The pool by the fishing hut produced nothing, my nymph was ignored. As I prepared to leave the pool I heard a fish rise upstream of me but the broken water hid the rise form. I saw a small fish rise in the slack and paused to watch the water. The small trout rose again further downstream and a good fish rolled over like a porpoise only a few yards away. I hurriedly tied on a black gnat. In my haste I tightened the knot badly and the tippet just above the hook was curly. I repeated the mistake and told myself to calm down. I retied the knot for the third time. I flicked the fly into the slack water and it was immediately taken by the small trout. The better trout went down.
I dabbled in the Major’s pool but the river bed must have changed a lot in the last fifty years. The bedrock was devoid of character. I walked slowly back to the Defender, pleased to have caught two and a half trout. I celebrated with fish and chips.
The new coarse fishing season started on 16 June and I spent three days trying to fool spooky carp on Dartmoor. The sun beat down but the wind on the moor kept me cool. Watching a carp circle the bait before gliding away with a look of disgust at such an obvious trap, was amusing but frustrating. Floating Oxo flavoured dog biscuits gave me the edge. I put a fearsome bend into the Mk IV and dragged a big carp from the edge of a lily bed. I must return with a fly rod.
Sitting beside a lake for several hours was in stark contrast to wandering along the banks of a freestone river. I had the urge to pick up a fly rod again. It was very hot and humid with no breeze. I waited until late in the afternoon before leaving home. The grasses and wild flowers brushed the wing mirrors on both sides of the Defender and the track down to the river gave the springs and shocks a good workout.
I met another member on the river bank, the first time in five seasons that I had encountered another angler. We agreed on opposite ends of the Beat and I walked upstream to the Dead Tree. To my delight the tree had sprouted new foliage, it was not dead, just resting.
I had a plan. I started higher up the Beat than usual and warmed up at a big wide pool below fast water. Having developed muscle memory, I wandered down to the long deep run along the far bank. Rather than fish the entire pool with a nymph, I planned to swap flies and search the fish-holding scour under the big rock.
Ammo box
For ten minutes I let the weighted GRHE nymph drift deep beside the rock but without a response. I repeated the process with a gaudy sea trout fly, mainly red and black over silver. Again, there was no response. Convinced that a fish hid under the rock, I rolled a heavy Jersey Herd around the base of the rock. Nothing. I gave the nymph another go before leaving the pool for the flat water downstream.
I paddled into the margins of a long bank-to-bank riffle and flicked the nymph into the slack behind a mid-stream rock. A spirited little brownie grabbed the fly and objected to being drawn up through broken water. I slipped the hook out and the trout departed, untouched, none the worse for its adventure.
I met the other member as I was leaving, he’d had a small trout from a midstream run. On the way home I was surprised to see that the pub was open and popped in for a pint and a scotch egg. The plan had failed but it had been a nice evening. Just one fish was better than a nil-nil draw.
Sussex Trout Fishing ... and Devon 