The on-off nature of spring this year threw another switch this week into full on summer, single figure temperatures on Monday had climbed into the low twenties by Thursday. A casual sunshine walk in a local bluebell wood with my wife, saw us mobbed by swarms of some of the fattest hawthorn flies that I had ever seen, prompting the question, “Is it ok if I go flyfishing this afternoon?” Hawthorn flies being blown onto my syndicate trout stream have the same effect as the later Mayfly hatch, the trout begin to look to the surface for their food supply.

The sunshine would allow my wife to happily work in the garden, while I optimistically headed off to the river in search of rising trout. Reports were still bad for the river, with only a few small wild trout being caught, but I headed downstream to my own hot spot on an S bend, where I had taken many early season fish in the past.

The nature of the bend had changed since last year, tractors fording the shallows had shifted much of the gravel downstream, creating a rapid shallow straight, that seemed devoid of its previous trout holding pockets. Wading up the straight into the main bend brought no response to my small gold head Hares Ear nymph. This is where I used to be troubled by dace and small browns. Not today. Already I could feel my doubts creeping back about the state of the river. The next half our brought no takes, not even a dace, or chub. I consoled myself that the lack of apparent fly life was the cause and headed back to the road to drive to the wooded mid section of the river.

Two weeks ago it was still winter along this riverside path, now higher temperatures have brought a transformation, wild garlic is filling the air with a heady scent and bluebells are opening out beneath a fresh green canopy. Even a cuckoo was heralding summer as it passed slowly through the wood. Surely this was a good sign?

The river was criss crossed by flies of all sizes, delicate caddis were emerging, while big alders were scudding around the margins, but there were no rises to be seen. I decided to walk down to another once productive pool and work my way back. I stopped in my tracks. A good size fish was rising steadily as I rounded a bend, passing below it to enter the river and wading within casting range. The trout was lying in a depression of a fast stickle, invisible from where I was, a swirl the only indication, as it launched itself at the passing food items. It may have been emerging flies and nymphs, I could not tell and tried my luck with the gold head, which was ignored.

Opening my fly box, an unweighted Black Devil said try me, the trout continuing to rise as I fumbled tying the knot. This midge like nymph has been an early season winner for me and once again cast well above the trout for it to drift by in the twisting current. A boil and a stabbing take. I, or the trout missed it. I continued to cast, it did not rise again. Time to retrace my steps and continue down.

The were no more rising fish and having crossed the river, walked up along the pasture side opposite the wood. In the sunshine, hawthorn flies were involved in courtship dances, some very large specimens among them. There was little breeze and even less chance of them being blown onto the surface, but tied on a size 14 bushy imitation and made casts to imagined trout on my way upstream.

Getting back into the water below where the rising trout had been, I approached with caution from around a bend. There were no rises, but greased the fly up for another try. With a high bank to my side and a tree overhanging on the other bank, casting was not easy. Being right handed, I had to make a flat cast across my chest. It looked awkward, but worked and the big fly floated high among the ripples in the hope of shocking the trout into a take. The shock came after several casts, a flash of gold and the straightening line beneath my bending rod top, being the automatic reaction to the pound plus trout appearing like magic to snatch the Hawthorn from the surface.

This is where I should say that with skill, the trout was played to a standstill, but no such luck, the trout on a tight line, spun and skated across the surface at my feet, until I had the presence of mind to release the reel giving line. Now I stood a chance of the upper hand, as it screamed off line heading upstream like a torpedo. Before I could think “A decent trout at last” it turned and came off. All over in seconds, shock, panic, elation and deflation. That’s fishing.

I continued back upstream, crossing the river again to avoid a field of curious young bullocks, making the occasional cast with the Hawthorn. There were no more rises. Maybe next week will be better?