Well, that was weird. Six weeks of enforced house arrest does funny things to your head. It was not exactly difficult but nevertheless a minor effort to get my kit together and make my way up to the bottom stretch of the Seven. You get used to the confinement, with the days actually slipping by surprisingly quickly, and enter a kind of torpor. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as delighted as the next person that we’re getting back at least some of our freedom but I didn’t find myself tearing out of the door like a madman. Maybe it’s just me.
Anyhow, by the time I reached the river the sluggishness had dissipated somewhat and I was very happy to be out in the open with the river beckoning. Sadly the fish still seem to be in lockdown.
The river was low-ish – I think we had a spot of rain last night – but looked in not bad shape:
But hardly any fish rising and only the odd small one scuttling off from my less than expert approach. I put a partridge and orange on the point and snipe and purple on the dropper, attached to the 7.5ft rod. Nothing doing until I got beyond the bridge and into a little patch of disturbed water a few yards downstream of the weir:
I spotted a couple of small rises just the other side of the riffle and landed the flies in the vicinity. I was rewarded by the first trout of the season, slightly larger than a coronavirus:
Woo-hoo, no blank. Had a couple of small out-of-season grayling, and connected with two other fish in the weir pool but they didn’t stick. Maybe the fish are all wearing face-masks.
And that was it for a two-hour session. I’m sure that as the summer progresses and we can start seeing our families again and things revert to some kind of normality the fishing will be as joyful as it ever was. At the moment things are still distinctly rum.