It was the 2nd June and the day was glorious, one of those days that makes you glad to be alive. it was like a dream being in the water meadows alongside the River Windrush in North Oxfordshire. It was mayfly season and although I am not a great flyfisherman, I still really enjoy it, being next to some of the most beautiful waters in the country.
We arrived at about 12 o'clock and walked the water before heading for luch in the local pub as the mayfly activity normally happens later in the day. Upon our return, we walked back and forth and noticed some activity in the wooded and cooler end of the river.
Bob pointed out an area which had been productive a few days previously and noticed a couple of rises, but I was unable to raise the fish. Bob tried one of his favourite flies and caught a wild brown trout first cast, really showing me how to do it.
I then tried without any success until we decided to move, and as I wound in all the slack line, I had a sharp take and missed it!
We the headed downstream and I heard a trout taking behind some mid-stream rushes. As we listened and watched, it appeared to be taking every mayfly that drifted downstream. It was an opportunity too good for me to pass up. Bob suggested if I rolled up my trousers, I could walk across to the end of the rush bed and cast upstream from there. It was only knee deep so wouldn't be a problem. As I am always a little suspicious, I took off my shoes, sock and trousers and stepped in - right up to armpits!! I don't know where Bob keeps his knees but he must have the longest shins in the world. Anyway, I was drenched now so there was no point sulking and there was a fish to be caught. I carried on into the river, and crept around the end of the rushes where I could readily cast to the rising fish. After a few casts the fish took, and really tore off upstream pulling the rod down almost to the water. It then bolted downstream so quickly that I thought the fish was lost, but it had gone into an area where I could play it sensibly and bring it to the bank, where Bob was waiting with a net (and a laugh). After taking a photograph (you can just see the waternmark across my upper torso) the fish, a beautifully marked wild trout was returned unharmed. As a picture is worth a thousand words I thought that showing the sequence of photographs below would amuse you all. It is a good job that I'm 6'2" and not Ronnie Corbett or I would have drowned.
It was great fun and an experience that I will not forget, and on such a warm day, I dried out in no time at all. We different places as time passed. happily sitting on the bank sharing fishing tales waiting for the next rise. Bob had two more fish, the best nearly two pounds. I missed a couple more takes due to striking too fast. There is a significant difference between the spate rivers that I normally fish where the appearance of the fly doesn't matter as the fish don't get chance to study it and take very quickly, to the chalk and limestone streams of the south where the fly must be a better replice, lightly presented and slowly struck into.
It was a glorious day made evn better by sharing it with great company. Bob and his friend Derek were great company and kinderd spirits and was a red letter day. This is what fishing should be like, great enjoyment, beautiful countryside and wild fish.
Many thanks Bob.