The River Walkham flows through the village, it is my home river. I watch the trout in the pool below the ancient bridge most days. They are friends, not to be caught. They quickly grow fat on the constant stream of nymphs stirred up by the children swimming in the weir pool.

Heavy rain was forecast, it was time to walk beside the river before the water level rose. I wanted shelter from the sun, a relaxing walk and silence. The deep, wooded valley behind locked gates fitted the bill perfectly.

I wandered down the gently sloping path beneath mature oaks, stepping over wayward brambles and ferns. The tyre ruts were overgrown and there were no footprints or paw prints in the damp mud. The woodland hadn’t been disturbed for weeks.

I saw a trout rise in the pool just above the fish pass and managed to scare it away with a clumsy cast. The nymph caught on a rock. I calmed down and switched tactics. The water was too shallow for a nymph, a parachute midge on a 2lb tippet was a better option.

I hid behind a tree and waited for a trout to rise. A roll cast from the hand dropped the fly ahead of a fish which came off after a few seconds. That was progress. To my surprise the fish returned to it’s station and continued to rise ! It refused my fly and I moved upstream, hoping to catch it on my return journey.

I crept through the undergrowth and climbed down a rocky bank. Crouching beside the water was awkward but I managed to flick the fly across the river at the top of a glide. A trout grabbed the fly immediately and was safely released without handling. I’ve always had success in that pool.

On my return journey I cast to several rising fish but they melted away and reappeared further downstream. The fish in the pool above the fish pass was not impressed by my casting.

It had been a lovely evening, two hours slowly wandering through the woods with a rod. Back at the cottage I sat in the garden with a glass of wine until the sun dipped below the trees. A perfect day.