I’d spent three hours searching, and over forty minutes of that were spent hidden in the tall grass, waiting for a hatch that would never materialise. I counted three Danica all evening. I chuckled as a male blackbird, thinking it was a swallow, attempted in vain to catch the airborne morsels, while an otter I’d unknowingly approached from behind was already zoned in on his dinner.
I’d almost given up.
A small fish sipped at the far bank near the willows. I kept an eye on the bullocks in the field above. Light was fading, and I didn’t fancy shooing a herd of thirty large animals capable of trampling me in the dark. Better to see death coming.
The fish took another sip. Bugger it. I can’t pass up a rising fish. Cast made, one eye still on the herd that was now clearly watching me, and my focus was torn to the rise and the chaos that erupted.
Multiple runs. A 50-yard charge downstream, pulling line as I ran after her. A 50-yard charge upstream, reeling in line as I ran after her. My brain kicked back in as I sat on my knees and the backs of my heels, looking at the 20.5 inches of fury sitting in my net. I hollered. The cows looked down from above with faces of utter boredom.
She calmly swam away, seemingly not giving a damn. I sat there, water coursing around me. Smiling like an idiot. Tonight was a good night.
