Still lost, still soggy, slightly wiser

Congratulations. If you’re reading this, it means you either:

Survived Part 1 without being absorbed into the moor,
Returned from Dartmoor slightly damp but spiritually awakened and keen to do more,
Or survived this year’s river fly fishing season! Well done!

Part 1 of the Dartmoor Fly Fishing Survival Guide covered the basics: how to find a river without finding yourself waist-deep in existential crisis (or blanket peat bog), how to cast without donating every fly you own to the gorse gods, and how to interpret the silent judgement of sheep. You’ve cut your teeth (and maybe your waders), you’ve earned your stripes (or at least bracken rash, or bruising), and now you’re ready for what comes next!

So, what does come next?

Pub protocol. Fly-tying finesse. Riverbank rituals. And the noble art of looking competent after spending six hours talking to yourself in the rain.

So, without further chit chat, let’s get back to the Moor in readiness for what next year may hold…

Pub Protocol - When the River has been Kind…and when it Hasn’t!

Celebrating a Stellar Day

The “I Own the Moorland River” Toast
You’ve earned this moment, so bask in it! Walk into The Hound & Gusset (or insert the name of your favourite local pub here) with a deep sense of mud-streaked pride, waders half off, but not showing too much and the aura of a victorious cryptid. Order an ale (it must be ale!), something rich and locally brewed. Tell your tale, but keep it light - remember you caught a fish, not solved world peace.
Buddy Bonus
If you're fishing with mates, now’s the time to buy the round. Generosity tastes better than trout (which is why we all practice catch & release down here!), and besides, you’ll want them to net your next catch when you’re too busy filming yourself ensuring you’re perfectly in frame!
Inner Confidence vs. Bragging
Dartmoor etiquette dictates subtlety. Use phrases such as “snuck one out of the tail of Pool Nine”, or “had a lovely fish just beyond the riffles near telly-tubby hill”. These tried and tested tomes drip with inner confidence and the peace of someone connected to the river. Instead of “I totally obliterated the Teign.” Wild Trout are not fans of hubris - remember never underestimate their intelligence!

After a Sandy, Soaked, or Sheared Day

Sympathy Pint Policy
If you look like you've lost a duel with the landscape (and it’s pretty certain you will have!), be honest. Walk into The Hound & Gusset (again!) and ask for a pint of “whatever helps you forget slipping into a freshly trodden sheep’s path face first!” A Fresh layer of ‘substance’ on the face, arms, or any visible skin may result in the owner taking pity on you and giving you a free pint!
Murphy’s Law Confession
“First cast, perfect. Second cast, tree. Third cast… rod snapped.” This is the kind of honesty that earns you quiet respect and possibly free crisps.
Optimism Optional
End with: “Tomorrow’s another river.” Even if you're not sure you’ll fish it, say it. It sounds noble and like you planned something to do other than sob!

Spare Flies & Spare Sanity

Ah yes, the age-old dilemma: choosing which flies to take to the river - part science, part superstition, part emotional breakdown.

You’ll begin with noble intentions: careful hatch-matching, weather app consulting to check the barometric pressure, perhaps even a chat with someone who “once saw a rise on the East Dart in 1984! But as you stare at your fly box, filled with your finest, most precious creations - each tied with trembling hope and a single pheasant tail fibre - you’ll realise the truth:

The fly you should take is the one you’re not afraid to lose.

That unassuming scruffy number tied at midnight with mystery dubbing and a vague sense of doom? That’s the chosen one. Because the fish will eat the one you only have one of, cast dangerously close to a rock, under a tree, in a wind tunnel. So leave the museum pieces at home. Pick the expendable. The one you can say goodbye to without needing a support group. Here’s my tried and tested go-to… All year, every year!

The Uncle Fester (as it is a close member of the Adam’s family of fly patterns!)

Hook: Size 14 barbless dry fly (so you can lose it guilt-free)
Wing: Offwhite CDC Feather - bright enough to see, not so much to offend nature
Body: Hare’s Ear dubbing or whatever happens to be clinging to your fleece
Thorax: Claret Seals fur - or just enjoy some port with cheese
Hackle: Olive Grizzle or badger - sustainably sourced or opportunistically scavenged
Tail: Natural Grizzle Hackle - or something stiff you found in your sock drawer
How to Fish: Dry with a Dash of floatant and a pinch of prayer

The “Uncle Fester” is your secret weapon for Dartmoor’s twitchy, free-rising browns. Tie it with love. Or frustration. Both work.

Rules for use

Keep it quick – Rain waits for no one, tying on a new fly!
Avoid gorse proximity – Gorse is where confidence goes to die.
Accept charity – A fly offered by someone mid-river is a handshake from the gods. Take it - always!

The River–Pub–River Triathlon

Leg 1: The River
This is where it all begins - ideally upright, sometimes face-first. You’ve leapt from the car full of vim and breathable fabrics, armed with seventeen flies, three opinions, and one hopelessly optimistic plan. The river greets you like a grumpy relative: cold, loud, and full of sharp rocks. You cast with the grace of a heron in a wind tunnel, mumble apologies to a suspicious trout, and attempt to look “experienced” as your line knots itself into something that may qualify as modern sculpture. After several near-misses, one accidental fish (or floating stick), and at least one bootful of Dartmoor’s finest, it’s time to declare “early lunch” and limp toward civilisation.

Leg 2: The Pub
Ah, sanctuary. You walk in like a returning war hero - damp, dishevelled, and full of tales that only improve with beer. The owner gives you that look: part sympathy, part amusement, part “please don’t sit near me”. You order a pint, something carby and brown, and proceed to explain how you almost landed a fish that looked interested before the wind/sheep/nearby ghost scared it off. This is where all bad casts are forgiven and all wet socks are toasted dry by the fire. You may even get a fly recommendation from the pub dog. And just when you start to believe you live here now, someone says, “Should we head back out?”

Leg 3: Back to the River
This leg is where optimism and gravy wrestle for dominance. You’re rehydrated, vaguely warmer, and now slightly overconfident thanks to that second pint. You stride back toward the river, full of renewed purpose and a piece of pie still lodged in your soul. Your casting now carries a newly formed, relaxed swagger; your footing, however, does not. The trout are just where you left them - smug, stubborn and still not rising. You tie on a fly with the pub dog’s blessing, begin casting into a pool with near-poetic timing, and instantly hook a tree behind you that hasn’t moved since 1873! And thus, the triathlon ends as it began: with wet feet, a hopeful lie, and the quiet knowledge that you’ll do it all again next weekend, maybe the same, maybe even better, but the fact that you’ll return is what is important!

Survival Tactics - The Pub & River Mind Meld

Waders Off, Manners On – Unless you’re invited in dripping, de-wader. Nobody needs soggy bar stools. There’s a reason why some pubs still have serving hatches outside!
Round Karma – Catch a trout? Buy a pint. Lose one? Still buy a pint. Trust in the fact that the Balance will be restored.
Leave Room for Cake (and Cheese) – The only thing better than a successful rise is sticky toffee pudding with cream, or a full-blown cheese board. After all, Cheese IS Life!
Fly Generosity – Share your best pattern, especially if it’s weird. If it works, they’ll name it after you. Probably.

Final Thoughts

So here we are - slightly damp, inexplicably cheerful, and somehow no closer to understanding trout psychology, but a little closer to understanding ourselves.

Dartmoor has a way of humbling you in the most charming of fashions: it steals your flies, soaks your socks, laughs using livestock as its voice, and then hands you a sunset so beautiful it almost makes up for the fact you fell in. Twice.

This strange, wonderful ritual of casting into mist and mystery, of swapping flies and lies over beer, of squinting at riffles and tying patterns that look like soggy lint with attitude - that’s the real essence of this pastime. That’s fly-fishing. Not catching fish (though that’s nice too), but showing up. Again and again. Despite everything. Because, in the end, Dartmoor doesn’t reward success. It rewards persistence, patience, and the ability to laugh when your dignity gets carried away downstream.

So go on… prepare yourself for next season - Return to the Moor. With your Uncle Festers, your pint money, and your quiet hope. The river is waiting. Probably with more gorse!

The Dartmoor Fly Fishing Survival Guide – Part 2