River Rother at Leconfield Estate, West Sussex

I recently made an acquaintance of Nigel Rainton, the man behind the splendid Sussex Trout Fishing blog. Nigel's diary showcases his exploits on the River Rother at Leconfield Estate, where he is a member. The Leconfield Estate is only a thirty minute drive away from my home and is, as far as I can tell, the nearest fly fishing club offering river trout fishing. It has been a curiosity to me for that very reason and in the past when driving nearby I have stopped to peer over bridges and get a sense of the Rother. 

Leconfield is a traditional landed agricultural estate centred around the historic Petworth House near the town of the same name. The estate is in the ownership of Lord Egremont, who is the president of the fly fishing club, and historically it was the southern seat of the Percy family of the Wars of the Roses yore. A real sense of history pervades the grey-stone town and the rich pasture lands which surround it. When Nigel offered me an evening on the river as his guest, my old school motto "carpe diem" was instantly enacted.  

Nigel recommended that I bring along the longest rod in my armoury, because the river has cut through the clay and soft sands of Sussex over time, leaving high banks. Wading isn't permitted and the extra reach over reeds and bank side vegetation would be needed. I had to dust off the 9' rod I last used in New Zealand half a decade ago. Nigel kindly loaned me the use of an enormous long handled landing net without which it would've been impossible to land fish. It is a style of fishing quite different from what I am used to, and the challenge and variation excited me. 

The river has a head of wild brown trout and also has a run of sea trout. It is trickle stocked with brown trout in the 2lb range. Nigel mentioned that members average one fish per visit so I was under no illusion that it would be an easy place to fish. 

We descended from the car park in the woods by a shaded footpath and emerged in a flat pastoral valley where sheep and cattle grazed. The sinuous, Alder-lined Rother was the centrepiece in the scene. It was 4.30 p.m. when we parted ways and I made for the upper section of the beat. Nigel had said he would try a nymph but I decided to walk upstream, looking for rises, and use a dry fly only. 

I covered a lot of ground, watching the water, waiting and hoping. After two hours I began to question my dry fly approach. I had seen no hint of fish and my Halfordian resolve was on the verge of breaking. I sat on the grass eating my dinner, a fiery chilli pesto pasta, when I heard a splash behind me and I turned to see the dissipating rings of a rise just in front of a small willow bush which covered the width of the river. I packed away the now empty Tupperware, crossed the low sheep fence to my left and doubled back, away from the river's edge, and came up behind the willow. It would be a one cast opportunity only because I would need to cast sideways and let the fly drift downstream. Lifting the line from the water and retrieving the fly before it drifted into the willow fronds, and snagged, would certainly spook the fish. I flicked the fly into the water and watched it drift. Nothing. I tried a few more times, just in case, before moving on. I was encouraged nonetheless that a fish had moved to the river's abundant fly life and decided to keep to the dry fly only script.  

I encountered three more rises before I reached the upper limit of the beat where it meets the equally historic Cowdray estate. All three fish had risen in impossible places to cast to. The third fish looked to be the best of them, rising gleefully to mayfly under the low hanging branches of a tree. I crawled under the tree, rolling my sleeves down to keep the nettles at bay, and attempted several bow and arrow casts through the tree branches. It was to no avail because I just couldn't get the fly to travel far enough to reach the fish. It was a wonderful place for a fish to live and feed securely and probably grow quite large. I left defeated. 

A large white barn owl flew silently above the water meadows to my right. It was hunting, and dived into the long grasses at intervals. It began to fly downriver towards me, and I reached for my camera, when its flat face and dark round eyes locked on to me and it turned and flew away in the opposite direction. It started to rain and with a groan I realised that I had left my rain jacket in the car. Fortunately it was only a squall and it soon passed, leaving me only a little damp. The sun emerged from behind the clouds and the evening took on a distinctly humid feel. I saw deer, rabbits and pheasant busying themselves in the dusk as skylarks delivered their final performance with gusto from the trees. I also spotted an eye-catching moth, with red and black coloured wings, flitting between the stems of the grasses. I later identified it as a Cinnabar moth, apparently quite common, its bright colours a warning to predators of its toxicity.   

As I walked downstream a fish rose in the middle of a wide pool. What was this, I asked, a fish rising in a place where I could cast to it easily?! I was certain it had taken a mayfly and I cast a Mohican Mayfly and watched it drift and then disappear as the fish took it. That was the easy part done, what happened next was rather comical. I could tell instantly that it was a good fish as the line pulsed and throbbed before the fish dived into the weeds. I applied side strain to remove it from the weeds and then walked backwards, releasing line as I went, so that I could fetch the landing net which was a little way downstream. Hooking the net pole under my arm, I reeled in the excess line and walked upstream until I reached a place where the fish could be gathered in with the landing net. By now the fish was back in the weeds and after a little coaxing it emerged and went into the net. I scooped it from the water and took a quick photo. It was a strong, chunky fish with a pronounced shoulder hump. I removed the fly and placed it back into the water with the net. Unfortunately, it rolled on its side in the cavernous expanse of the net so I had to slide down the bank and hold it upright in the water between the reeds while it recovered. The bank was steep, and made of loose soil, and with growing dismay I started to slide into the water. The water had reached my knees and the only way to stop the gradual slide was to throw my back and head against the bank and keep a precarious, contorted balance while the fish recovered and swam away. It took a lot of effort to extricate myself from that tricky spot and reach the safety of the bank top. This wasn't easy fishing! I was breathing hard, my legs ached, I was wet and covered in mud, but most of all, I was happy.       

I saw no further rises in the last hour, but I didn't mind that. I watched the calming flow of the water and savoured the natural surroundings as the sky turned a rosy pink. I liked that the river is maintained with a relatively light touch. The privacy and tranquillity of the place was all consuming. It is accessed by a private road and there are no public footpaths. The nearest main roads are out of earshot and it's easy to get lost in time and nature here. 

Thank you, Nigel, for hosting me and allowing my curiosity to be sated. It was also special to belatedly catch a trout on a mayfly pattern, probably my first and last this season.