Trout of the Weald

I returned to my secret stream on Easter Monday. It was cold when I left home early, and my car's thermometer showed an outside temperature of only 6°C. I stopped twice along the drive to pour hot coffee from a flask, but didn't dawdle because I was needed back at home by 1pm. 

I enjoy the one hour drive to this river. The road takes me through picture-postcard English towns and villages, and past castle ruins. It offers impressive views of rich, green farmland against the backdrop of the chalk hills of the South Downs. This particular river rises in those very chalk hills, only a handful of kilometres from the headwaters of a fine chalkstream, but its fate is sealed by the prevailing topography and geology. Instead of flowing west and south over chalk, as the magical chalkstreams of Hampshire do, it flows east over the poorly draining clay soil of the Weald. It is prone to spate and typically carries billowing clouds of silt the colour of korma curry. 

I chuckle when I think that my own fate has brought me to live smack in the middle of Sussex, the very heartland of the muddy (but fertile) Weald which also occupies the southern part of Surrey, the eastern part of Hampshire and the western part of Kent. The Weald's geological nature means that it is largely unsuited to trout, whilst perfectly sandwiched between the parallel chalk escarpments of the North and South Downs where trout abound in streams made in heaven. No such luck in Sussex, I'm afraid. This stream is the nearest free stretch of decent trout river that I have yet found in the Weald and it's why I keep it close to my chest. 

It was typical April weather. A persistent westerly wind chilled the air, making light work of a weak sun, and I wore my winter coat. I started at the point I left off two days before, casting into a pool I know to hold trout, but nothing stirred. I was surprised because a great big hole has been scoured from the bed at the head of the pool, beneath the fronds of a willow tree. It's the sort of place I'd expect to find a trout or two in residence.               

I moved round a bend in the river to a fast flowing, shallow reach, with ranunculus taking root in the gravel. It was a pretty stretch of water and even had a hint of a chalkstream about it. I prefer fishing these faster flowing riffles and waded gingerly into the river. I shortened the distance between my indicator and fly, and lobbed my nymph into the water ahead. Almost immediately, my indicator dipped and I struck into a fish, a small grayling of 7 inches. It's the closed season for grayling, so I quickly released it.   

I took a step forward and cast further up into the riffle. Several drifts later, I hooked another fish. It was another grayling, this one around 10 to 11 inches long. I took a quick snap of the fish in the water before watching it dart to freedom. 

Due to the strong gusts of wind I had yet to land my fly where I really wanted, right up against the right-hand bank. In a moment of calm I nailed the cast and sure enough, my indicator plunged forcibly and I struck into a slightly heftier weight. As the fish came into view I saw spots and could tell it was a trout. I cheered! The trout was also around 10 or 11 inches long, but it was plump and in very good condition.

The next pool is probably the best in this particular stretch of the river. Currents enter the pool against both banks, with a calm expanse of water in between. I cast into the slack water. When my leader straightened I struck into a fish which came free after some wild theatrics. I worked the current on my right, to no avail, and then focused on the current to my left. I noted an invitingly dark piece of water next to the exposed roots of a tree. A trout was in residence and what an explosive little fellow he was when hooked! He leaped clear from the water at least six times, like a marlin, until he suddenly stopped, exhausted, and simply gave up. It's not often a brown trout responds in such thrilling fashion.   

Clouds had begun to gather and the day became dark and grey. I wanted to explore a new stretch of this river, one hidden by a forest of trees upriver. The going was slow under the trees because many had fallen and blocked the way. Great big thickets of bramble also caused obstacles, best avoided to spare my waders. Wild garlic proliferated in the damp soil beneath the trees. It was eerily quiet in the trees yet very beautiful. Here the river was largely unfishable with a fly, because it was full of logjams and covered by an excess of goat willows. The goat willows, yet to take leaf but covered in yellow catkins, added colour and looked pretty. There were mysteriously deep pools in between the logjams and I promised to return with a streamer and stronger tippet. I have never used a streamer in a British river before, and had nothing of the sort in my fly box. 

I did come by one open stretch of water (the photo below taken looking back downstream) and from it I tempted a trout to take a nymph. This trout possessed a much darker hue to match its shady home.

There is still much of this free section of river to explore and I will return. I had to dash to make it home on time, and it snowed on the drive home. It feels wonderful to be fishing again, and I look forward to better weather and rising trout in the weeks to come.