One of the attractions of sea angling is its multi-faceted nature. If you are a regular reader of my monthly postings you will have already witnessed the captures of various species. This year’s list barely scratches the surface of what is possible to catch from our shores. There is a myriad of baits that be purchased or foraged and no doubt more of these will be used in future ventures. As I have no intention in ever writing about the technical aspects of fishing I won’t go into detail about the thousands of choices of rigs and hooks that are key compenents of any trip. Nor will I describe the rods and reel choices available except to say there is something for every scenario and budget. What always brings me pleasure when penning these pieces is putting into words the experience of the ever-changing nature of the season, the vageries of the weather and the states of the tide. I have been extremely fortunate this year that my periodical outings have often coincided with some outstandingly glorious days, I have also been chilled, soaked and wind blasted. No two trips are ever alike. I have also had the honour of bearing witness to the special moments that the natural world creates; sunrises, sunsets, moonrises and close encounters with incredible wildlife. Many of these were personal to this lone traveller. Other events have been shared with the friends who have joined me on those adventures. All of this combines to make this pursuit of catching fish one of life’s pleasures. There is one aspect of this past-time that really excites me, the host venues that I find myself exploring. In the course of ten trips so far this year I have visited flat, golden sands, sat on rocks under towering cliffs, watched the tide ebb away through river mouths, walked along a man-made structure and cast a line from a huge pebble beach. Each has provided its own unique experience and always with a vista across the open ocean. But there is one type of location which has lurked on the list, unchosen by the random app, sometimes far from the coast yet still part of the sea angling scene. A river estuary with its channels, mudflats, weed and grassy banks can be a fruitful area for intercepting passing fish. Growing up in South Devon I was lucky enough to live within striking distance of four major river estuary systems, each with its own character. The vast Exe Estuary daunts one with is size and mudflats. The Teign flows from the heights of Dartmoor and is more easily accessible. The Kingsbridge system, a mighty ria, is notable for its many creek, hidden amongst farmland. The Dart, arguably the toughest to fish, carves a deep channel as it meanders through mid-Devon, its banks steep and heavily wooded. I dabbled with angling high up on the Teign when I was small, trying to catch mullet with my father and have loved visiting these muddy venues ever since.
Wipers smeered the grime of the Devon backwater lanes across my damp screen as car headlights lit the bases of high hedges, yet it was only mid-afternoon. November had brought damp and murk. Mizzle hung in the air below a low, grey sky. The occasional country pub passed, windows aglow with warm light cast across the road from curtainless windows. My passenger, my father, knew all of these hostelries and quietly told me how good the food used to be at “Floydd’s place” or what a good pint could be had in Tuckenhay. I am sure he would not have complained had we pulled over to sit by an open wood fire but we were on a mission and had a bag full of top quality bait in the back. Journeys end was also close at hand. A few twists and turns, the odd moment where I stuffed my vehicle into the hedge to allow another car to pass (this is the Devon way) and soon the tower of Cornworthy church was looming out of the misty cloud. We had arrived.
It may have appeared miserable but upon stepping out of the car we realised the rain was next to nothing and it was also a mild, almost muggy afternoon. I had not packed waterproofs and was thankful I wouldn’t be needing them. Wellington boots, the most essential item of clothing for estuary fishing, were donned and in no time we were slowly picking our way through a farmyard to reach our footpath. The cows paying us little heed as we gave them a wide berth.
I have fished the Dart the least of all the estuaries in South Devon. I am still learning everytime I venture to its shores. Its main run curves and slices, creating deep areas awash with fierce tidal flows. Along its way it is interspursed with a few small creeks, tiny rivers adding their waters to the mighty flow. This month the number generator had landed on one such slip, Bow Creek, the mouth of the River Harbourne. Dad and I had fished together here before on a scorching June afternoon. We lazily stood on the bank that day catching a few small bass. We remarked at the end how tough it had been with weed washing through, crabs eating every ounce of bait within minutes and boat traffic causing chaos as daytrippers motored upstream for a pint (or many) at The Maltsters Arms. Surely a dank late Autumn evening would proove quieter and more productive. I didn’t want to dampen Dad’s spirits so kept to myself my awareness of how difficult late season river fishing can be.
It took a lot longer than we remembered to tramp downhill before finally catching sight of our home for the night. We did not see or hear another soul as we emerged from another hedge-enclosed track onto a wide, grassy field. Below us, behind a line of old trees, the brown-grey sheet of estuary mud and water appeared and immediately my heart was gladdened. I love the solitude of a tranquil stretch of water running between trees and rolling hills. If you asked me to paint a picture of Devon this is the scene I would produce (if I had the skill). Our pace quickened as the soft grass yielded firmer footing. In less than a minute we were sneaking over a gate and onto a silty bank below a gnarled chesnut, its leaves clinging on, bright yellow against the ashen day.
One of the many things that I enjoy about estuary fishing is the fact I do not need my usual heavy duty gear. For the first time in over a year I had my light rods for company. No need to heave large weights some distance here, the main tidal flow was a mere thirty yards away. This was the perfect location for a relative newcomer to the hobby such as my dad. We talked quietly, our tones hushed by the still air, about baits and where to cast. Fresh worms and crab baits were the ONLY option here to have success. It did not take us long to get three lines in the water. Dad eagerly watched his rod tip as I busied myself getting prepared for the night ahead. Despite sunset still being an hour away I found myself searching for my torch such was the gloom that shrouded our little patch of bank. Our first casts resulted in nothing more than hooks stripped bare by crabs! We noted this could be a potential nightmare as those crustacians can hoover any offering in minutes leaving nought for our intended quarry. However, we would not be disappointed for long. After reloading our hooks Dad was soon exclaiming excitedly as his rod tip began to bounce. He is not the most fortuitous angler and I found myself paying more attention to him than what I was doing, willing the fish to hook itself and give him a success story. A few further rattles followed and he could not wait a second longer, he struck firmly and groaned, “Nothing there!”. He was wrong. Reeling in we were delighted to find a small bass had gobbled up his worm. Silently smiling I returned to my rods in time to witness an equally lively indication on one of my tips. Lifting the rod I knew straight away I had also snared my first fish of the session. A slightly larger bass darted through the weed as my prize neared the shore.
These two silver bars lit up the overcast day, gleaming in the light of the camera flash. Grins illuminated our faces as we released them back into the cloudy waters and our bright conversation echoed across the river and under the bows of trees.
Having felt success we discussed what else we might encounter. The species list is a bit more limited in these brackish waters. Bass are a mainstay, Dad wanted a flounder next and I secretly hoped a gilt-head bream would make a rare appearance. First though we had to get through the bass. As the light changed from a dim grey to a flat black the bright fish fed in a frenzy. Each cast saw the rods dipping and twitching as more and more small specimens nipped our baits. At one point neither of us had a line in the water such was the ferocity of the bass attacks. They fed with gusto as the tide reached its peak. It seemed like fish after fish was being slid onto the wet grass at our feet before being sent on its way to harry some other estuarine fauna.
When the flow stopped and turned direction the bites decreased. I think we were both grateful for a break. Catching our breath we listened to the night. Somewhere in the woods a tawny owl screeched at the dark and a pheasant startled, its warning cry filling the air as wings flapped manically. The river lapped onto the dark bank and then, in the distance, the sky burst into life as fireworks crackled in a cloud of glorious reds, yellows, greens and blues. Colour was briefly everywhere, breaking dark’s hold. We did not have much time to admire the brilliance as our own rods again began to shiver with a display of bites. More bass were moving down the creek on the flow of the ebb tide. Time streaked by and, in what seemed like minutes, my father was bemoaning our worm supply or lack there-of. With only a few crab left I cut down to a single rod. Still fish hit the baits but it was calmer again now. Sharing the last of the bait we had one final cast apiece. I started the task of packing up, carefully ensuring we would leave nothing behind. As rubbish was stowed into a bag I noted Dad had his rod bent into what appeared to be a snag, a poor way to end the evening for him I thought. It then becamce obvious he had got his gear moving but the rod still bent, he was hauling some weight. There were noticable nods on the tip every few seconds and I could see the line kiting against the run of water. To me it was clear he had a fish on the end although he was adament it was just a lump of weed. I wandered down to the water’s edge to greet his incoming rig and there, in the beam of my lamp was a beautiful sight, the largest bass of the trip was wallowing in the shallows. I gently pulled the beast onto the mud. Dad let out a yelp our pure elation. It was undoubtably his personal best.
It tipped the scales to just under three pounds. A simply magical end to an almost perfect outing. We watched in awe as I held the fish in the water to revive it and then it effortlessly glided away. After a celebratory hug we called an end to our endevours and sweated our way back to car, chattering all the way about the events that had unfolded that evening. The different location had provided a thrilling experience and I am still smiling as I write remembering the look on my father’s face as he admired his special capture.
Dad gets to grips with one of many small bass caught on this trip.