I spent a Saturday morning uprooting Himalayan balsam. I saw lots of rising fish but I had deliberately left my gear at home. I was too tired to go back in the afternoon but planned to fish that part of the Beat a few days later. When I returned the river was high and a bit coloured. I had a nice walk in the woods listening to the bird song.

I also visited a Beat on the Tavy that I had never fished before. I knew that access to that part of the river was difficult and left the cottage intending to explore the Beat from top to bottom without the distraction of a rod. I left the Defender in a car park and allowed my instincts and the sound of rushing water, to guide me away from the urban environment towards the cool, tree-lined stretch of river. I was surprised to find a peaceful oasis only a few minutes walk from a retail park.

The access to the top part of the Beat was good but wading in the margins was the only way to explore the long riffles and glides further downstream. I had chosen wellies ! I walked to the end of the Beat across the fields, the bottom pool and run-in looked lovely. I must return with a rod.

Having walked two Beats on the Tavy with no chance of a fish, I decided to end the trout drought with a visit to my favourite Beat. The hottest day of the year, 32 degrees, was probably not a good day for trout but I felt confident that if I curbed my impatience and started late in the afternoon, all would be well.

I slammed the back door of the Defender at 3:00pm and walked upstream to my usual place on the rocky beach below the reincarnated tree. The tall trees on the far side of the deep valley cast shadows right across the river. After a few casts at the top of the pool I had a knock on the rod, somebody was at home. Although I concentrated on presentation and worked the nymph around the large, submerged granite boulders, I was unable to convince a fish to take.

I wandered down the margins, covering the flat water below riffles and eventually hooked a fish which looked and behaved like a small sea trout. It threw the hook. I smiled. Hooking a fish was progress. I eventually caught a trout from the eddy behind a very large mid-stream rock.

The pool by the fishing hut produced nothing, my nymph was ignored. As I prepared to leave the pool I heard a fish rise upstream of me but the broken water hid the rise form. I saw a small fish rise in the slack and paused to watch the water. The small trout rose again further downstream and a good fish rolled over like a porpoise only a few yards away. I hurriedly tied on a black gnat. In my haste I tightened the knot badly and the tippet just above the hook was curly. I repeated the mistake and told myself to calm down. I retied the knot for the third time. I flicked the fly into the slack water and it was immediately taken by the small trout. The better trout went down.

I dabbled in the Major’s pool but the river bed must have changed a lot in the last fifty years. The bedrock was devoid of character. I walked slowly back to the Defender, pleased to have caught two and a half trout. I celebrated with fish and chips.