A cold winter’s day taught me yet another harsh fishing lesson. Thanks to leaving the warm confines of my bed so early on Valentines day (thanks Philippa) I had managed to bag my favourite swim. After quickly tackling up I trotted out a bunch of maggots looking for an obliging Chub.
Second cast my float bobbed down and I reeled in a small Chevin under a pound. Suitably encouraged I cast again and the float disappeared on cue.
However this time the bend on my rod and strong tugging told me I had a bigger fish to contend with.
After a short fight I brought the fish to the surface and could see a personal best Trout wallowing close to my net. However disaster struck as I led the Trout in, the bung connecting my net to the telescopic poll fell off and the net floated off down stream away from the Trout.
My mind quickly worked out that the net could look after its self and hand lining the Trout in was the best option. As the Trout came within an inch of my hand it became angry at the unconventional landing, vigorously shook its head and fell off the barbless hook into the river.
At this point I swore, cursed and repeatedly kicked the floor.
Recovering my composure I hooked my net with the poll and made some running repairs. Still cursing under my breath I baited up and cast out. Sure enough the float bobbed under and I was rewarded with a Trout, not, the 4lb beauty I should have had, but a younger brother only three inches long.
Truly the fishing gods were laughing at me.
Some luck returned as the day went on a pair of nice Chub made the day better, safely landed using my repaired landing net. But as I left the river all I could think of was that old fishing cliché, ' the one that got away'. Sod it.
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