Lifting the Lockdown (Déjà Vu)

By happy coincidence the trout fishing season opened hot on the heels of a relaxation of Covid restrictions. It meant I could drive the one hour to my nearest trout river on the opening weekend of the season (the same river I visited when the first lockdown ended last year). This trip felt especially necessary, because it had been a very long winter, cooped up at home.

I had in mind a relaxing picnic with my young family next to the river. I set up a tent on the soft grass of a high bank of the river, and then spent a few minutes filling up a bag of rubbish left by other visitors. I haven't quite made the connection yet, but the nationwide litter epidemic in green spaces has been a curious by-product of lockdown easing.  I despair at mankind, sometimes.

I quickly learned that trying to convince a five month old child that a picnic is meant to be fun is hard work. With a bored baby, and mother's patience diminishing fast, I realised that I had best make hay in double quick time. 

I have never seen this river running so clear, because it usually carries a cloud of colour. Whilst I rigged up my rod I kept an eye on the water for signs of rising fish, but there were none. It's still too early and cold for insects in these parts, although I noticed a solitary bumblebee in the grassy margin. Trees and brambles on the riverbanks were still bare. Winter clutches tightly in shades of grey and brown, but it won't be long before the season explodes into life.  

I chose a nymph with a heavy tungsten bead to do the work, and soon hooked and lost a small fish from the pool next to the tent. It was a promising start. The flurry of action was enough to buy a few moments of curious silence from my son too. 

I waded in to the glide of water around the next bend in the river. The water was icy cold, matching the bite in the wind. The bare branches of a tree blocked my back cast, which meant I had some early-season roll casting to do. I soon found my rhythm and on a good drift my indicator dipped below the surface and I struck into a lively fish. Typical of the wintry scene, my first trout of the season was a gunmetal grey but otherwise blanched of colour. It felt good to feel a trout slip through my hands again.

By now I could hear my son starting up like a John Deere engine in need of work. I felt a little guilty that my partner had to endure it alone while I fished. One more cast then, up into the good looking water ahead, before calling it a day. My indicator dipped once more, the size 14 flashback pheasant tail nymph coming up trumps again. This trout was a fraction larger than the first, 11 inches long, and its underside was a rich buttery yellow. Spring is coming, and this trout knew it.   

It was only half an hour of fishing time, but it was enough to shake off the cobwebs and feel normal again after a winter of confinement. My son will stay at home when there is proper fishing to be done, until he's a little older.