Cross Country

The prospect of summer evenings spent sea-trout fishing is laden with both excitement and trepidation for Neil and Serena Cross – marital peace is at stake

NDC

On balmy summer evenings at this time of the year, we sit in the garden and tune our piscatorial instincts towards the prospects of a sea-trout. Some nights, we barely even have to discuss it; there’s been rain the previous week, the river has some tea-staining, there’s no moon or breeze and the air is heavy. We drain our glasses, load the already-assembled rod into the old Landy and chug off towards the river.

Nights like these are charged with energy, and sitting on the bank, awaiting that witching hour when the ‘green goes out of the trees’ and the first cast can be made, is special indeed. Pools above and below echo with the slaps and sploshes of jumping fish, and in the gloaming it sounds like paving slabs are being hurled in as double-figure sea-trout cavort under the alders.

Having derived pleasure and excitement from the entire finny tribe, ranging from bullheads to billfish, these moments are almost impossibly exhilarating. By the time that first cast is made, nerves are taut and senses sharpened to a fine point.

Knowing the pool is crucial, as you are now casting by feel and instinct. It’s also crucial that the tackle feels like a pair of old slippers. My sea-trout line has a tiny scuff at the point where I know sufficient has gone out. This avoids time-consuming tangles in the overhanging foliage opposite.

Often, a fish will hit the fly on the first or second presentation if conditions are perfect and, when the take comes, those heightened senses reel.

The power of a fresh sea-trout in a small river is staggering. Hard, deep runs with furious head-shaking terminate in aerial acrobatics where the line goes slack and the heart stops. A three-pounder feels like a blue marlin and provides worldclass sport on a light tackle.

What always amazes me is that despite a hooked fish tearing about the pool like a wounded buffalo, its neighbours are still merrily splashing and leaping. For a notoriously spooky fish, the sea-trout can be as brave as a lion in the right conditions.

After a protracted tussle, the muscular bar of silver is finally played out and breathing becomes an option once more. Roots, submerged logs and all manner of impediments still pose a real threat as the net is extended and dipped into the stream.

I’m too superstitious to ever handle the net; that’s someone else’s job…