After the storm I thought the river would be high and dirty but peering through the railings at Rotherbridge, I could see the last fragments of weed and a few Dace flashing on the sandy bottom. I even saw a Trout rise upstream of the bridge.
Great Springs looked great. The water was crystal clear and the marginal weed had shrunk in sync with the shorter daylight hours. The weather was weird. A hot southerly wind blew from the Sahara, drawn up by a dip in the Jetstream. The sky was grey and threatened rain.
I was in two minds about fishing the emerald green lake. It reminded me of the old brick works except for the scenery, no sunken cars or rusty rail tracks. The dappled sky and Autumn colours made up my mind, I would catch a few rainbows. The cold grey river could wait until next week.
The strong wind swirled around, disturbed by the tall trees so I started at the southern end of the lake. I rolled out a black fly with my left arm and with considerable wind assistance, was able to work the edges of several small weed beds. I expected a tight line every cast but after thirty minutes I hadn’t had a take. I walked around the eastern edge of the lake and sat on the little wooden seat. I let the wind do the work. The fly drifted in an arc along the edge of a big weed bed where, several years ago, I’d caught my biggest brownie. There was a bang on the rod but it was far too quick for me to react.
I felt the presence of Trout and saw a big shadow drift past but the line remained slack. All the experts advise fishing into the wind but it’s hard work with a long, light rod. I moved to the point and sat facing the wind with deep water only a few yards away. I fired a small black spider under the wind, fan casting around the point. There was a lull in the wind and I cast South to where a fish had swirled. As soon as the fly landed there was a very confusing, splashy take and the rod bent. I imagined a foul hooked fish but after a long spirited fight, I landed the smallest Trout in the lake. The tiny hook dropped out of it’s mouth into the landing net.
A few minutes later I cast towards a pale shadow and hooked another fish but it wriggled free after a few seconds. Although the wind was easing my aching arm became a problem and I retired to the fishing hut for tea and biscuits. Just two biscuits. The Trout was a perfect size for eating and tasted lovely. Poached, with a little lemon juice, brown bread and butter plus a chilled glass of white wine. Perfect.