Sussex Diary: 19 April 2026

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

Walking along the path beside the river, the unmistakable shape of a snake caught my eye. I froze instantly, just in time. I had almost stepped on it.

I don't expect to see them in Britain. Hailing from South Africa, I skrik at the sight of any snake, and here it was no different. Every nerve-ending in my body screamed 'danger' as I processed the serpent's sage grey mid-section lying across the path. 

As thick as the cardboard tube inside a kitchen roll, the snake's scales flexed as it turned and effortlessly glided past my boots into a stick pile. It had a black head banded by white. A grass snake. The largest I have seen. One obsidian eye viewed me warily as it slid silently by, and then it was gone. Initial shock aside, it was a lovely sighting.

The snake would have been enjoying the morning's warm sunlight. The warmth is drawing life back to the river bank. Stands of wild garlic bloomed white up to the water's edge. Nettles and brambles already grew with zest, and every tree now seemed to be budding to some degree. The recently silent woods now echoed in a chorus of birdsong led by the ornithilogical cantor, the blackbird.

I made my way upstream to my favourite section of water. I watched the water for a time and was rewarded by the sight of a splashy rise tight against the right bank. Perhaps the fish had risen to a hawthorn fly. The air was thick with them. I waded slowly upstream and cast a black Klinkhåmer forward. I was rusty and needed four casts to find the precise place, an inch from the bank. The water erupted in a splash, revealing the green flank of a trout. I chided myself for striking too early, but was relieved when I felt the familiar thump thump of life when my line tightened. It lasted only a second or two and then the fish was gone. A pity, a trout on a dry fly would've been a nice way to start my account.

I quietly waded round the next bend. It was only then that it occurred to me how icy the water was. The water there was calm but a log deflector added a hint of extra flow. A trout was bound to call it home. My dry fly was ignored so I tied a Hare's Ear some three feet below it. The nymph found instant reward. It was a good fish, judging from the golden flash of its broad frame from the murky deep, but it too went free after a couple of seconds.

I walked upriver, enjoying the sun's warmth in the open fields, until I came to another favoured pool where I found the banktop swathed in pretty bluebells. The water raced over a little weir and scoured an undercut from my bank where I knew a trout would likely lie. 

A rope is used to reach the water and I tested it to ensure it retained its strength after a winter. When set at the water's edge, I flicked my dry fly and nymph over my left shoulder and sent them forward. As the dry fly drifted past the ledge it was pulled under, just as expected, and I lifted my three weight rod into a trout. Third time lucky, this trout entered my net after a spirited show. 

I debated whether to go on upriver but one trout was enough for me. That's the pleasure of having a river close to home. They can be taken in small doses, and you can be back home for Sunday lunch.