The one’s that didn’t get away!

The small boy dazzles more luminously than the wildflower splashed riverbank. Wearing a butter yellow T-shirt with a blood red logo over blue and white horizontally-striped shorts, he blazes a warning to any fish going about their business beneath river surface. It is near dusk – normally a hazy, lazy time – but now the riverside is frantic with sound and movement. The boy and his dad are pursuing trout. To catch, kill and take home for dinner. But it’s no wonder that there’s no luck so far. There’s nothing pretty about junior’s fishing style. He pulls back the rod to one side and with a double-handed, overhead motion, reminiscent of someone attacking logs with an axe, ferociously casts his line. Ten or so metres away, his dad employs a similar technique: line repeatedly hurled out and reeled in. And all the while they keep up a running commentary on what is occurring, or not occurring. Meanwhile, the trout have clearly heeded the repeated hazard warnings and decamped upstream to more tranquil feeding grounds.

The appeal of fishing has largely passed me by, but I confess there’s something aesthetically pleasing in observing a proper fly fisherman or woman in action on the riverbank

I live by the river and see the fisher folk come and go on the far bank. It’s a pretty river; perfect, I’m told, for brown trout. Stretches of clear, fairly shallow water, with occasional tumbles and splashes over rocks to the next calm, slow-flowing level. Round our way, though, there doesn’t appear to be much etiquette or skill involved in the sport. For a start, there aren’t many “flies” about. Most of those fishing use some sort of spinning lure which they cast and repeatedly reel in. Others go for live bait, worms perhaps; I’ve never got close enough to check.

The appeal of fishing has largely passed me by, but I confess there’s something aesthetically pleasing in observing a proper fly fisherman or woman in action on the riverbank, or in waders in a fast-flowing stream. Their wrist flicking back and forward in the cast, the line an ever-growing arc until, with a final deft movement, the fly gently settles on the water and dances a little. Just as a real fly might.

I once had dinner with Henry Winkler, aka The Fonz from Happy Days, a charming and modest man with stories to tell. He said, almost in passing, that he enjoys fly fishing. There was no mention of the fact that, judging by the photos posted on social media during the season, he’s an absolute master of the game. The actor is regularly pictured with his latest catch: a monster brown or rainbow trout, or sometimes a salmon. I’m absolutely certain that Henry follows all the etiquette and guidelines of the sport, treating the fish he catches humanely and with great care, probably releasing most, or even all of them, back into the water to live to fight another day.

I did eventually go trout fishing. A friend’s father had taken up the sport in retirement and invited us both to join him for a day’s fishing on a lake close to his home. Geoff was a man who took his pursuits seriously. So, he had all the correct gear: a selection of rods, the boots, the wax jacket, and most importantly, the floppy hat with an impressive array of brightly coloured and exotically named flies hooked to it. We fished from a boat, my friend and I with borrowed rods – not quite so dressed to impress. Out on the lake’s calm waters, Geoff attached flies to the lines. “Ah, Robert,” he said after some consideration, “the Black Chenille for you, I think. It’s a good all-round fly and should give you a fighting chance.”

We three sat in the boat for what seemed to me an eternity, with not the hint of a bite or even a nibble. Until the inevitable happened – the Black Chenille did its job and I hooked a fish. There was no skill involved on my part, the trout must have been passing by feeling a little peckish. “Let him run,” Geoff instructed as my line went whirring out. “Don’t strike yet.” I was simply hanging on. “Don’t let him dive down into the weeds. That’s right play him, gently, play him…now strike!” I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but under Geoff’s expert guidance I reeled in my catch. Once the wriggling victim was on board, Geoff dispatched it quickly and efficiently with a single blow from the “priest” – a somewhat ironic name for an instrument used to bludgeon fish.

That night we dined on my trout, filleted, along with other fillets taken from the freezer – Geoff was usually much more triumphant in his pastime. But as we ate, I remember hoping that I wasn’t actually eating the fish I’d caught and had, by now, secretly named Tommy. And ever after, whenever I visited, Geoff would greet me with the words, “Ah ha, it’s the Black Chenille.”

Suddenly, across the river, there’s a pandemonium. “I’ve got one, I’ve got one,” yells the boy. And he has. Well and truly. His father rushes over, brandishing a short, thick piece of tree branch. The squirming fish is unceremoniously yanked from the water and dumped on to the grass. Father and son close in and I turn away, not wishing to observe the coup de grace. “I did it,” the boy yells again, “I caught it.”

Another young fisherman – hooked.

Robert Rigby is a journalist, author, scriptwriter and musician