They say that we Brits like to talk about the weather and, if we were to eliminate utterances of despair at the two political 'B' words of our time, the chorus of the last month might read, 'Has the sun forever disappeared, when will it ever be dry?'. Having now moved to Exeter, commencing a PhD within trout population genetics, I had been hopeful for the many opportunities to explore the local provision of winter grayling within Exmoor's wild tributaries of the Exe and the larger pike and perch of the slower-flowing lowland drains and canals. Heading up to the Exe Valley fishery to sample a well-known stretch of the Exe for some autumn grayling during early October gave the first taste of the season to come: fast, dangerous, turbid water. No chance of presenting even the heaviest tungsten nymphs, the mere thought of wading suicidal. Not content to waste the 4 hour journey that my Dad had made there, consolation was found in some most-obliging Wimbleball rainbows.
A daily habit, bordering obsession, has been found in checking the river flow monitoring graphs online, the hope of steadily falling levels throughout the week checked as a fresh spate consistently hit our rivers just in time for the weekend. Desperate, both Stuart and I ply fellow anglers in the local area for any recent successful days out. The repeated theme resonated; few had tried fishing, fewer yet had been catching. Not content to simply call winter the season of sitting behind the fly tying vice in the lazy comfort of the stale indoors, we managed to come across some welcome late-season bass. Hopes lifted, I bid Stuart farewell for a while with a small box of flies and odds-and-ends of tackle, my token participation in his seeking of Tasmanian trout.
The last week of November saw a welcome dry spell, though with many such forecasts having been cruelly replaced by inevitable low-pressure systems as plans were made, hope was kept modest at best. As the days passed, small peaks were read on the flow gauge, as overnight downpours toyed with certainty. But doubt soon gave way on Friday night, as confirmation was given by a friend living next to the Barle. Though flows were still relatively high, the water was at least running clear. Double leggings, flask of tea, an assortment of heavily weighted flies tied the night before and many spare jumpers in case of unplanned dips into the icy water; the car was soon packed and trundling up the Exe valley way. The Dulverton Angling Association holds water on both the main Exe, and its tributaries the Haddeo and Barle, all for a very stipend-funded-student-friendly price of £35 per year, and upon local advice, tempered with the telling words of ‘it’s just nice to be on the water this time of year’, I parked up by the bank of the humble Haddeo.
Despite the dry forecast, some unexpected shower fell through the trees, clinking loudly upon the roof and windows of my old Skoda. Looking out across the field, a neat line of Rangerovers parked as if in a show room, a grotesque picture of country lifestyle gluttony if I ever did see one, molesting the local environment they pose as stewards of. High in the air, driven pheasants fly clumsily, a few spiralling to the ground in mortal submission. Fat men, sugar-coated in tweed, nod approvingly at the killing. Throughout the year these riverside valleys have been transformed, stuffed thick with a monoculture of non-native pheasants, spoiling the land with a glut of pellet feed, natural ecology pecked thin, polluting the river, all for this day. What an honour to be there and witness the waste.
Holding my thermos of tea inside the car, dodging lead shot, I squirm eagerly into my waders. As if on cue, the guns stop and the opportunity is gladly taken to slink out towards the river. I’ve heard all the rage about Euro-style nymphing and had felt the absence of such a presentation during some sessions over the end of the season, to be able to present nymphs through deep pools and yet stay in contact in such a way that an indicator perhaps might not allow. Eager to expand my horizons, I’ve got my hands on a two-toned French leader from Barbless Flies, and soon find myself looping this on and tying a 5 foot section of tippet to the end. The action, bereft of the assistance of the weight of a fly line is jilted and unpredictable to start, but the systematic pattern is soon ingrained: flick, drift and track stop the rod behind to allow the nymphs to rise and flick against the weight of the water.
 |
| What a sullen scene. I'd certainly not be picking those tail feathers for flies. |
When the first bite came, line halting at the tail of a deep run, I’m not sure who was more surprised. Unfortunately the culprit was soon revealed to be a male brown trout, a fine fellow too of 10 inches, but very much in the season of spawning. Barbless hook slipped out, a few words of encouragement were given to think less of his belly and more of passing his genes on, and he was back to the depths of the pool. Under the imposition of a road bridge, on dutiful cast was given to the dark water beneath so as to cover all the water. A silver flash, a few moments of struggle, and all over. The mind dances tantalisingly as to whether I have just danced with the lady of the stream, or just another out-of-season brown. Either way I’d been jilted.
Meeting the road bridge, a change of tact was decided, walking the length downstream to look at the beat of the main Exe. Though the water was clear, it was apparent that the waist depth and pacey water might easily carry me all the way back to Exeter, shivering, if caution was not employed. Venturing out nervously, reassurance was found in the crunch of fine gravels and knee depth water, nothing too far out, peeking towards the deeper run on the far bank. Another footstep, however, plunged me down up to my upper thigh in the icy water, stumbling to keep balance. ‘Maintain control’ passed through the mind, as I found myself to be skating on devilishly slippery bedrock. Directly downstream, maybe 20 metres away, a deep churning pool threatened to snatch this foolish angler for his insolent lack of respect. One foot to the right, quickly followed by another, foot jammed beneath a boulder, torqueing against this for security. Wide stride, crunch, and safely back on fine gravels. Enough of that, time for lunch and a cup of tea.
 |
| You're not a grayling! Hoped that the pink bling might bring out the lady. |
There’s something nice about being here by yourself, mind taken to consider the subtleties of conversation or trying to keep others happy. I don’t think that it is selfishness that owns such moments, but the ability to let the rolling water, muted autumn colours and individual birdsong permeate your consciousness; no barriers or distractions. Tea finished. Not finding any more promising and safely wadeable water on the main Exe, a march was to be taken back to the Haddeo, where the day had begun, but fishing further up along the next beat. Instantly I felt more at home, the river scarcely wider than a rod in many places, and mostly shin deep, akin to the intimate waters of West Cornwall. A change was made from the duo of heavy shrimps, the more gentle flow accommodating a single red-peeping caddis. Flicking this into a textbook back eddy, line held high above the fast flow in between, an instant bite is brought, and the value on this nymphing malarkey seems to be made evident.
An hour or so continues in the same vein, chastising all too eager browns from almost every likely looking deep run for grayling. Light dying, I was contented to call it quits besides a deep pool, a half-rotten corpse of a pheasant marring the scene slightly. I’d failed to locate the elusive lady this time, but no matter, it really had been a breath of fresh air to be trying something new. Grayling 1, Dan 0. I’ll be back.
 |
| Nice to finally get some patterns out of the vice and into the drink! |
