Hand of God

A FISHING buddy recently posted a clip of me casting a double-hander on Facebook, making me look far more proficient than I actually am.

He’d edited out the first part of the double Spey cast, and probably a false cast that I often throw in to set myself up for the final delivery.

The result, in glorious slow motion, was a few seconds of Stewarty’s line snaking across the river with balletic grace before the fly turned over and landed, light as thistledown, just next to a rising fish – who’d obviously spotted an opportunity to photo-bomb the master in action.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever and it brought to mind that trip to the Aberlour beat on the River Spey, for such was the stage for the drama that follows.

I had a few days off work and I’d arranged with my pal, The Alester, to fish the association water in his lovely home town.

We started on the Thursday in low water and bright sunshine – not ideal conditions for catching a fish but great weather to be out.

I had a new rod, as I recall, so I set about getting to grips with the Scandi-style handle and shooting-head line, both of which were very different to anything I’d used before.

Only much later would I get the hang of the casting, where your bottom hand comes into play far more than with a regular Spey line.

But by the end of the day, I was at least covering the water and feeling quite pleased with myself – which was just as well because the fish weren’t interested.

Friday dawned much the same and we lashed the water all day again, with much the same result. By close of play I’d just about got the hang of the new rod and The Alester – who had a new camera to play with – caught the moment on film.

Here was the dilemma though. Rain was forecast for the Friday night and fish were expected the next day – but the association don’t sell guest tickets for Saturdays.

The only way I’d get on was with the Church Ticket, reserved for visiting clergy but gettable if you know the right people.

Duly furnished with said ticket, I chucked spinners at a huge run of fish the next day, hooking four in about 40 minutes – but they all got off.

Leaving for the city the next day, I wrote a wee note to the minister and popped it in next to a wee donation to church funds. Form must be observed, after all.

I told her how I’d fished fruitlessly on secular tickets for two days before the Almighty intervened, only to deny me at the last.

I signed off: “The Lord giveth, and He taketh away...”