Sussex Diary: 9 July 2023

A diary of my visits to my club's section of river, somewhere in deepest, darkest Sussex.

I last saw Nick Moody over seven years ago in New Zealand, so it was nice to host him this month at the start of his first visit to Britain. A great deal had changed in that time. Both now north of forty we had become middle aged, sported grey in our stubble, and my ability to go fishing had become a lot less spontaneous.

Nick had brought along his fly gear and was keen to catch his first trout from the British Isles. I felt compelled to give him a crash course in the geology of Sussex so that he would know in advance what to expect. The unassuming lowland river near to my home - sluggish and silted - is nothing like the rivers he was accustomed to fishing in New Zealand. Nick was undeterred. 

It hardly rained in spring and the same trend has continued into the summer. I was worried about the state of the river. To allay my fears we drove to the river for a recce on Saturday afternoon. We found the river level low and in hot cloudless conditions we walked the entire length of the beat without seeing any trout. I could see that Nick was a little dispirited at what he saw, but then, at the very end of our walk we spotted a trout holding high in some shaded water. This seemed to perk Nick up for the following day’s fishing. 

A gentle rain fell overnight, and we decided our best bet was to fish the river early on Sunday morning, when the temperature was still cool and the water hopefully freshened by rainwater. We arrived just after 8.00am. Unfortunately, when I opened the tube of my 6’ 2-weight rod, I found the reel seat had come loose, rendering it useless. This meant that we’d have to share my 7’6 3-weight rod. Nick had never used such a light rod before and he marvelled at how delicate and weightless it felt in his hand. 

I took Nick to my favourite section of water in the Stables beat where we were pleased to see at least two trout rising intermittently, one at the tail and one at the head of the pool. Nick waded upstream ever so slowly until he was in range of the rearmost trout and then cast a #18 para-duster forward. The fly needed several drifts until the trout came up to take it, the take eventually coming with the speed of a rattlesnake's strike. Nick seemed to hook it well and the fish - one of the river's wild trout - was on for a couple of seconds while being tracked in its every frenzied move by a smaller perch. Disappointingly, the trout went free. Nick couldn't believe how large the light outfit had made the little trout feel.

The foremost trout had continued to rise sporadically during this fuss and Nick waded up into casting range. The currents at the head of the pool were complex and Nick’s dry fly was ignored through a series of drifts. I suggested that he tie a nymph a few feet beneath the dry fly and was pleased when the trout took the nymph at the first time of asking. I had to yell for Nick to strike because the dry fly had only moved gently (he’d later say that New Zealand trout tend to cause the indicator to move more aggressively when taking nymphs). This trout was much larger than the first and exploded into life, running unimpeded to the sanctuary of tree roots on the opposite bank, where the relentless action was suddenly halted, replaced by our puzzled questions of whether the fish might still be attached.  Nick reached down into the depths and removed his dry fly from the wispy roots. Of the nymph and trout there was no sign.

I took Nick upriver to another promising pool in the Huts beat. He worked his flies upwards from the tail without any joy until, at last, a trout took his nymph where bubbles had been formed by a small weir waterfall. Now with a better sense of the feel and handling ability of my 3-weight rod, Nick was able to keep the trout away from the pool's obstructions. When the fish tired I scooped it into my net and Nick was over the moon. His capture was a wild trout and better yet, it was one of the larger specimens I have seen from this river. 

The largest freshwater crayfish I have seen, sadly a North American interloper.

We had pleasant conversation with two club members. The first, with a cased shotgun slung over his shoulder, was checking the club’s (empty) mink traps, and the second was taking kick samples from the river. Nick and I would later see a pair of jet black mink at the very downstream limit of the beat. They were quite brazen in our presence, albeit on the opposite bank, and busied themselves in plain sight in the grass and a storm drain.

 

We had lunch in the shade of an oak tree. Nick polished off a quiche (how very British) and I a bag of biltong whilst Nick regaled me with stories about his recent fishing trips in South America. 

I was keen to see if I could catch a trout before leaving for home so we walked downstream to the Paddock beat where we had seen a lovely sequence of deeper pools the day before. Sure enough, at least three fish were rising in the water ahead. I tried unsuccessfully to tempt the nearest with a #16 All Purpose Terrestrial so I replaced it with a Klinkhamer, to act as an indicator, and a #22 bead head nymph which trailed only a foot behind. The micro nymph was immediately taken by a small chub which I quickly released. I moved upstream and cast to the second fish, and the nymph was taken confidently by a trout which proved to be a lively and well-proportioned stockie. Mission accomplished; we could now leave for home. 

It was great to fish with Nick once again and for us to both enjoy success. Nick confessed to enjoying the experience far more than he anticipated, a case of sensory overload in a sequence of absorbing firsts. Scratch beneath the surface and there is a beauty about this place. He will move on to better fishing in the wilder extremities of Britain but will no doubt treasure fondly his first trout from this humble Sussex stream.

It was also nice for me to visit the river for the first time this year and it served as a reminder that I really should visit more often.