While my wife settled down to watch a couple of her TV favourites, Garden Rescue and Location Location, I put my fly fishing gear in the car and headed off to the River Whitewater this week. The river has not been stocked this year and for my first visit in six weeks, I was not expecting much, but it was good to get out on a warm sunny evening with nothing more than a flyrod, a net and a box of flies.

Parking at the farm, I walked down to the old cattle drink looking for rising fish, but apart from a few minnows nothing was moving and after trying a size 16 dry Hares Ear without a touch, I waded back out of the river looking for an alternative in my box. I found a smaller size eighteen Gold Ribbed Hares Ear Goldhead nymph and attempted to tie it on, but managed to hook my lip, while pulling the knot tight. Yeouch! That was extremely painful going in, while  extracting the tiny barbless hook was eye watering. It is amazing how much blood came out of that hole, needing to wash the fly in the clear river.

Recovered, I waded back in past a dead branch, that had been washed down in recent floods, keeping my casts up to the right, as the crayfish man had a couple of pots mid stream. The flow was just right and I retrieved to stay in contact with the nymph as it drifted back, the leader greased to within two feet of the fly acting as an indicator. I saw a few taps, which I put down to minnows, or small dace, but nothing else.

Enthusiasm diminishing, I moved further downstream to the old weir, where there was bound to be a trout lurking, even a small perch would have been welcome at this time. Working both sides of the race and the pool along the other bank without a pull, I waded up to the base of the weir, casting along the bank under the trees, once guaranteed to get a take from a chub, or a trout, but again nothing.

With the sun gone behind the farm buildings, this used to be the time for catching on the Whitewater, but something has gone wrong in the past five years. OK it is not the River Test, but enjoyment has given way to punishment these days. Maybe it is the multitudes of signal crayfish scraping a living on the bottom, the crayfish man is apparently having trouble carrying the hauls back to his van, or maybe it is the mink and pike?

The light was going and I was having trouble seeing my leader against the surface, so I decided that enough was enough and retreated to the bank, walking back to the cattle drink, where I stood on the gravel of the overspill casting up into the gloom of the pool. This was the last chance saloon, having caught many trout that have dropped back into the fast shallow water in the past. Extending my casts a yard at a time, the line suddenly zipped taut and a trout tumbled on the surface as I lifted my rod.

The power of a trout is always a shock after months of catching roach, even a relatively small one, as this one was, fights for all it is worth. The bronze, gold flanks of this fish flashed beneath the surface as I tried to stay in contact, elated yet fearful, that the tiny hook would lose its grip. Was this the same fish that I lost here two months ago? At the tail of the pool, I waited for the trout to give up, lifting my rod as it drifted down into my landing net. Full bodied and about 6 oz, I carried the wild brownie to the bank for a photo, the camera flash whiting out much of the colour, but still a beautiful fish.

The hook was just inside the jaw, which pushed out with forceps and while still in the net, I held the trout facing up into the flow on the gravel run, until it was ready to swim free. Thinking that it would return to the pool, I was surprised that it turned and disappeared downstream.

My last Whitewater outing had resulted in a wild fish, but they are few and far between these days.