Working in the garden between downpours had earned me a two hour fishing pass from my wife and I headed off toward the syndicate trout stream, hoping to find the mayfly in full hatch mode. Strewn around my kitchen were various fishing jackets drying over chairs, retrieved from the washing line too late to save them from another soaking. An old moth eaten gardening jacket had been pressed into service, pockets filled with a few essential accessories, along with the all important box of mayflies, before setting off, but whether it was still shower proof was soon to be tested.

Crossing the river in the van, the road was still running with water, but once parked up the worst of the shower was past. The sun was out and somewhere there would be a radiant rainbow, but with chest waders to wriggle into my mind was on the mayfly. Joining the river at the bridge, the jacket was doing an acceptable job of warding off the rain and I made my way upstream under the trees to where a feeder stream comes in, seeing that it was carrying at least 6 inches more flow, the gravel run on the main river, now a speeding glide. No mayfly were visible and and certainly no fish rising.

Carrying on upstream, gulls were sweeping low over the river at what I guessed were mayfly awakened by the sunshine, but the trout were not taking. With no time to waste, I pushed on until rounding a bend the tell tale ring of a rising fish was spreading across the surface. Here mayfly were landing and taking off, being harassed by at least two trout, getting down into the river well below to wade up toward them. The wind was sweeping in gusts across the river making long casts difficult, the only option was to keep low and cast a short line. Yesterday’s successful Bodied Mayfly was routinely ignored, while the real thing were slurped down with abandon. My next choice was also snubbed, and plumbed for a traditional Winged Mayfly.

The trout at the head of the pool broached a couple of times as if determined not to let any mayfly pass to the fish below. It was a broad fish and I edged closer to present the fly, the wind controlling the last foot of descent. Close to the bank it took, leaping clear when it felt the hook, then rushing upstream to the bend. Without giving line, I let the rod take the strain, walking five yards down to where I had left my landing net in the reeds, the trout swimming straight out again at my first attempt, regaining strength for another run.

This 16 inch stockie full of high protein mayfly needed no reviving, swimming off upstream the moment it was released. The fly was a bit bedraggled after the fight, but squeezing floatant grease into the wings and body, followed by a few false casts, had it ready for action again. There were now rises further up round the bend and I waded up spooking the other trout, that bow-waved into the upper pool. The fly dropped to the surface, drifted a foot, then disappeared with a wallop as it was engulfed by another good trout, that powered away round the bend. Keeping the rod high, I waded after the trout, leaving the landing net again, my hands too full to carry it. The line went solid and I rounded the bend to find the fly lodged in a clump of reeds. To get the fly back meant wading through the middle of the pool, so that was the end of that little pocket of feeding trout.

Time was now marching on, I’d been rewarded with some fish, but now it was time to go and I headed back to the van, stopping at the feeder stream to see a trout rising mid river in what would normally be an couple of inches of water over the gravel. Wading out to it, I kept the line tight again due to overhead trees. He was missing many of the mayfly probably due to the shallow water reducing it’s cone of vision, but for me it took after half a dozen offers for the take and I was soon playing a very silver wild brown trout.

The colouring of this trout is unique as far I am concerned, the pound fish an added bonus on such a brief visit.