A day spent cutting back hedges in the garden, bagging up the off cuts and a couple of trips to the recycling centre, had just about worn me out. Relaxing in the sun with a well earned cup of tea, my wife commented that she was surprised, that I did not want to go fly fishing, as it was going be a lovely evening. I had been sitting there considering the most diplomatic way to broach the subject, when the words had fluttered from her lips like poetry. Realising I was on a winner, I shrugged my shoulders saying that the mayfly would be finished by now and the chances of a trout would be low, but I could go after dinner if she didn’t mind. It was true, the mayfly would be over, but it was still worth a visit.

Arriving after 7 pm the sun was still warm, the air still and a variety of flies were lifting off, even a few mayfly were about, flying low across the river. The only thing missing was the sight and sound of rising trout as I walked downstream, casting my mayfly into runs that held fish last week. The trout were still there, ignoring my artificial, making a mental note for my return upstream.

I tied on a GR Hares Ear nymph with the leader greased to the last 18 inches and began to work my way back. One observed fish sat on a corner out of the flow and the nymph induced it to move out for an inspection, but no more. Working my way back upstream, the sinking sun began to blind me, blocking out my sight of the leader on the surface. It was time to go. Nothing was rising. The trout were full of mayfly and were no longer interested. I should have stayed at home.

Close to the road bridge a fish rose under trees. Greasing up the nymph to float, I tried casting up to the rise, but caught the fly in a branch on the back cast. Pulling it free, the 4 lb tippet broke. Mayfly were now lifting off in numbers and I tied on a Mayfly to the new tippet. Giving up on this fish, I walked up to another in open water. A messy cast put the fish down.  Ten yards on another splashy rise was covered. Success a fish, but a small one.

This wild brown was a welcome sight, but not what I had hoped for. At least I had caught a trout. Reaching the van, I decided to walk to the bridge for a look upstream, the sun was now below the trees, but the light was good and mayfly were still filling the air.

A fish rose below the bend, then again as I watched. I climbed the stile into the field, then got into the river. It was still rising, lying in a deep run between shallows and I moved as slowly as possible to get in range. There was no wind and my first cast was ignored, despite what I considered to be a perfect cast. Another rise and I cast further up. Wop, it took. All hell let loose as the trout flapped on the surface, before dashing round the corner beneath a tree. Grabbing my landing net I followed it, putting on pressure to drag it out into the open. This was a good fish, that I did not want to lose, letting it run down the channel past me, netting it on the return.

I was tempted to continue upstream, but I was now satisfied with my good fortune. The mayfly had switched on for me for the last time this year and I had been there to take advantage of the feeding frenzy. Duffers fortnight had lasted five weeks this year.