Caught up in glorious memories

Icaught my first brown trout, in fact my first fish, under the tutelage of my grandfather on the river Wey a few miles upstream from Waverley Abbey, supposedly childhood stamping ground of Edward Waverley, as in the Waverley novels. (Probably not). As is the way with childhood memories, it was sunny and exactly the same sort of day that prompted Waffle and I to break out the rather wonky but revered Sharpe’s “Scottie” split cane trout rod.

The weather graph was performing a perfect curve: sunny if slightly cloudy and rising to what would be the warmest day of the year, so far, at around noon. The heat in theory should/ could/might bring on a sudden if brief hatch of fly at which point the trout would go bonkers.

So we got down to the river – only about 15 yards across at this point – through a field of new lambs and ewes and meandered in what we affected to be a knowledgeable and watchful manner downstream to the bottom of the beat about half a mile and then meandered back again, sat down, smoked a rollie and Waffle went digging for rare and protected voles.

And just after noon when there was actual heat in the sun, the breeze dropped slightly and a thin cloud came across and it just smelt fishy. It isn’t a smell really, it’s an atmosphere. Or something.

And as imagined, after the second rollie, the plops began as down the stream sailed some sort of fly. Or maybe a midge. Don’t ask. And simply because I had been told by my local expert that a Blue Partridge was a good one for us, that was the fly I cast above the biggest plop just upstream, 10 yards out on a slow corner below two gorse bushes coming into bloom.

And it actually went for it. And missed. And I waved the rod a couple of times to dry the fly, although I’m never sure about that one, and put the fly in just about, I thought, the same place which theoretically is a mistake. I think.

But blow me it , or something else, was on. Waffle went berserk and tried to swim out to the splashing. The Scottie creaked. How old was the cast? Was the knot even going to hold? Flashes of looming disaster.

And then, more or less in control, the net would only half flip open and I was down on to the shingle standing on one leg trying to kick it open, shout at Waffle and hang onto the rod.

And it actually came in and went into the net and with desperate visions of losing it and off balance I just threw rod, net and fish backwards up the bank. Hardly textbook. But a four pounder. Oh well, three and three quarters then. Thank you Grandpa. n