Two days of torrential rain, some of which came under my backdoor, brought the river in the village up a foot. The river thundered through the arches of the ancient bridge washing all the little trout downstream. I watched an optimistic angler casting a long line down and across the bridge pool. He was overcasting, any fresh salmon and sea trout were lying under the big tree in slacker water under his feet.

The river dropped overnight but more heavy rain was forecast for the following day. The choice of Beats was bewildering, given the height and colour of the water I needed a good mix of riffles and pools.

I chose the Tavy. The shallower, faster rivers could wait a couple of days. As I walked to the top of the Beat I looked down through the trees at the foaming, peaty water fifty feet below. I immediately thought that my choice of river was flawed but as I walked further upstream the pools became longer and the riffles slower. A couple of sofa Labradors raced across the fields to bark at me nervously, a dirty look sent them back to their cottage.

The balsam had been flattened by the spate and the rocks had been washed clean. The peat stained water was clean and lots of upwing flies were hatching. Everything looked perfect. As I prepared to cast, I dropped the fly into a back eddy behind an armchair sized rock and a solid wrench on the rod caught me by surprise. I kept a shortish line and worked the pool down and across for about fifty yards. I had a tap on the rod and then a few steps later, hooked into a small trout which released itself. That process was repeated until I found myself back at the Defender.

I’d had a relaxing walk beside the river, heard a buzzard, seen a dipper and sat on a flat rock next to fresh otter spraint. The fields, trees and riverscape had been washed clean and it was a privilege to be alone in such unspoilt countryside.