When the level is low it's like fishing on the moon, or what passes for another world on Doctor Who. The bank is littered with stones, shale or slate like, wobbly and uneven stones to boot. It's hard enough walking without falling over but, as I soon discovered, the stones leap up and grab your flyline. Grrrr...
Anyway, most of the flies (they're lures really) looked pretty good. The one exception being a snag resistant bottom hopper I'm trying to perfect. Back to the drawing board on that one.
Pretty as a pictureMy casting was complete pants, even with a dinky wee fry pattern on the end of the leader. The lake had flattened off and with the evening sun reddening the far bank my mind was wandering to thoughts of bream, bivvies and a fresh brew by the bedchair while watching the isotopes glowing in the bobbins. That was when I felt the take. Too late I focused my gaze where the fly should have been and saw the white mouth gape and cough the lure out. I covered the fish again but it had had enough. Only a small jack, but it would have been a start back into catching pike on the fly rod.
After an hour my casting started to improve. It was still rubbish, but I was getting the timing right more often than not. I worked my way along a fair bit of bank, but all too soon the light wa going. For the first time this spring the water felt quite warm, and there was very little chill in the air when the sun went down. If I can only get a few hours of an evening I might have a return session. If I can get away for longer I'll be breaming.
