ΒιΆΉΤΌΕΔ

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The late summer spate was at its best; in a few hours, the peaty water would besmirch the flow and the best of the fishing would be over.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I glimpsed the glint of a moving trout in the water below me, further downstream the boil of another appeared bulbous and tantalising on the shimmering surface of the deeper stretch.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I entered the water and waded cannily through the fast stretch. The wet-flies spittle moistened, I commenced a slow overhead cast, the fly-line extending freely in the gentle breeze, the bending fly rod providing the delicate energy. I lowered the rod tip, confidently in the direction of the quarry and released the looped fly line in my left hand. Projecting fly line glided easily through the guide rings to its maximum; the dissipating energy giving impetus to the continuing nylon leader. The limp fly line at its full extension dropped gently on to the water; the flies and leader following effortlessly like floating feathers of down, pausing delicately for a moment before slipping gracefully below the rippled surface.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ β€œAny luck?” came the ominous enquiry from an intruder I had not seen approach. Startled slightly, I turned quickly. On the bank stood a middle-aged man, in waterproof jacket, cloth cap, and wellies, his thin sallow stubbled face set in a boyish grin, his moustache lopsided by careless shaving.
β€œNothing to boast about,” I replied resignedly, retrieving the flies in animated fashion ever hopeful of an induced take.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ He adjusted the cloth check cap pretentiously on his head and cleared his throat. β€œHave you a licence for the rod?” he enquired tartly, producing identification from his pocket, β€œD.O.E. Fisheries Conservancy Board,” he added the boyish grin slipping to a stern faΓ§ade of officialdom. I moved to the bank and he lowered his hand, helping me from the river. I produced my fishing licence and we continued to talk fishing for some while as he pointed out the productive runs and lies from experience; a gillie for free.
Μύβ€œThe bottom stretch down past thon burn is certainly much better than this end, there’ve been a lot of trout caught this year, many over three pounds and a number of good salmon as well, ….. if you’ve a permit,” His inquisitive eyes seemed to search me out, and my hesitation answered his question.
β€œWell river permits have nought to do with me but I’d be careful, the Bailiff has caught quite a few on the lower stretch this season.”
He paused, fingering the parting in his moustache, then turning upriver he fired his parting shot, β€œAye … an they lost their gear and a heavy fine to boot, …. Good luck!”
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I gazed indecisively down towards the grassy bank of the lower stretch, the panoramic tranquillity broken only by scattered grazing cattle; the allure of the forbidden prevailing.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I sauntered diffidently downstream, past the burn to the big pool he had indicated, the fly-rod held warily at waist height, my eyes circumspectly scanning for the river custodians.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ The tail of the big pool with its fast flowing white water, the large rock in the centre providing an ideal rest haven for my quarry; the narrowed fast water a delivery tube for floating morsels. I studied the layout and evaluated the challenge. I would have to cast my flies across and upstream to avoid a foul-up with the rocks; it would only be possible from within the river.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I climbed gingerly down the elevated bank. Cannily I lowered myself into the river holding cautiously to a stout branch while my feet ascertained the riverbed terrain; just two inches to spare on my thigh waders. I eased cautiously out from the bank. Unhooking the flies I drew off some line and commenced a side cast parallel with the river to extend some line and judge my distance to the large rock. Casting the line obliquely into the fast white water beyond the rock, I retrieved the flies quickly with my left hand to avoid snagging the hooks on the rock. Each time I cast, the probing flies searched out the underwater arena, the rod held tense with nervous apprehension.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ On the third cast, I had a strike. The flies had barely slipped below the surface when the rod quivered in my hand. I quickly raised the rod tip, the rod strained, its tip bent double, and the clutch on the fly-reel singing merrily as my quarry made off down stream, the fly-line reeling out uncontrollably as I strained to hold the tip aloft and keep the line tight. Applying finger pressure to restrain the reel, I welcomed the pause in the excitement as the rod tip eased and the incessant whirr of the slipping clutch ceased.ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ
I commenced rewinding to regain the slack line, my heart pumping, this was a big-un, and I had to land it. Suddenly silhouetted against the evening sky I glimpsed the movement of two figures on the riverbank about one hundred and fifty metres down-stream heading upriver. My heart raced and trickles of nervous sweat flowed profusely from my anxious body. I moved quickly towards the bank, sheltering sheepishly beneath the dense riverbank growth, the rushing water spilling over my wader-tops in my haste: the two figures moving ever closer. Quietly I eased out extra line. Projecting the rod tip deep into the water to conceal the line, my right hand holding the reel body to prevent the clutch slipping noisily should my quarry decide to run again. They came above me and I heard their forced voices faintly above the rushing floodwater. The line tightened but I held the spool firm as my weakened but resolute quarry snatched erratically, the flexing rod tip below the water cushioning the shock. Unable to move laterally it decided to go vertically and commenced an agile aerial display, leaping out of the water, tossing and somersaulting, in an unsuccessful bid to extricate itself from the hook firmly embedded in its cheek. This was one time when I would have wished the fish would escape.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ The bailiffs were obviously intrigued by the antics of the large trout. β€œAye it’s a big un,” I heard one of them say loudly. The midges gathering in the evening clamminess above the water tormenting my sweated body. A coldness passed down my left thigh. Easing my head cautiously sidewards I viewed the rising floodwater now lapping at my wader tops.
ΜύΜύΜύ ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ Rising on my toes to accommodate the rising water level, the calves of my legs quickly tensed and soon began to ache. The ache became an excruciating pain and my cramped leg muscles started to tremble uncontrollably. Overcome with fatigue I overbalanced, the rushing water carrying my feet from under me, the rod disappearing with the flowing water, the waders filling menacingly with water.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I clung desperately to the undergrowth with both hands, my feet struggling resolutely against the torrential flow to find a base. I eased back against the flood, my feet secured against a submerged rock, the water-laden waders weighing like a millstone on my body. I held on grimly, my arms paining unbearably. A numbness pervaded my legs, a combination of fatigue and chill, as I fought to control my water laden lower body within the turbulent river. I could still faintly hear their voices above me. I could not hold on much longer, my heart was pounding, my breathing laboured yet my stubborn pride, and perhaps the fear of an imminent court appearance and the associated expense restrained my calling for help. Even my car parked at the bridge was in jeopardy I thought as my mind tortuously recalled a similar case.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ Lowering my upper body cannily into the cold water, I wedged my shoulders against the bank, my feet firmly pressed against the submerged rock. Timorously releasing my hold on the bank undergrowth, the flooding water rushing menacingly across my chest, I plunged my hands beneath the water and released the belt on the waders. Rising cautiously I grasped the bank firmly with both hands and with undulating movements, assisted by the heavy currents I eased out of the water-logged waders.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ Over to my left through a break in the bushes, I glimpsed the heads of my adversaries moving steadily upstream. I remained still for some moments gathering my breath. Grasping tightly to the undergrowth I hauled myself out of the water, shivers of chilled emotion passing over me as I paused, wet and exhausted on the grass bank.
ΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύΜύ I made a cursory check of the water. Nothing! No sign of waders or fishing rod. I arose on my sock covered feet, the water dripping copiously from sodden clothes. I wearily scanned the bank then headed up the field in the shadow of the ditch, like a drowned rat ………... and all for the price of a permit.

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