It’s warm in the kitchen, the food has been great and the Merlot, my favourite red, is going down just nicely. Three great reasons why I shouldn’t be hauling myself out into the gloaming with a fishing rod.
Reason four is that I have been enjoying the company of my friends, something I don’t get to do nearly enough of when caught up in the hurly burly of “normal” life and reason five is that I’ve consumed way too much of the aforementioned Merlot to be trusted near moving water.
But still, more often than not, I’ll go out - and this night will probably be no exception.
I’ll go because there is nothing quite like night fishing and if you want to catch a Sea trout, accepted wisdom dictates that you have to go at night. And I'll go because tonight could just be that special Sea trout night that we all need to experience once in a while to remind us why we do it at all.
On a special night, and I have to confess there have only been one or two, it will be calm with a light cloud cover. The air will be mild, but a chill will be settling down steadily over the water. There will be the raucous screaming of Black Headed gulls in the gloaming light, taking a last feed on the caddis hatch. If my timing is just right, there will be a black blizzard of small sedges, the Grannoms, drifting steadily upstream. Always upstream, for reasons that puzzle until you realise that Mother Nature’s hand is never random. If they laid their eggs in the exact same place where they themselves hatched, the eggs would naturally drift downstream in the current. As the aeons pass, the insects would eventually move further and further downstream until they laid eggs that would wash out to sea and end their time permanently on this planet. So they hatch and they fly upstream before laying their eggs. Simple. Perfection.
On a perfect night, I’ll step into the river on the right bank up in the streamy water before the main pools. I’ll still be a bit unsteady on my feet from the wine, but nothing dangerous, and I’ll be singing to myself, the volume will depend on the quantity consumed. The song itself is immaterial; it’s the ritual that counts.
I will be 100% certain that a standard two-pound Spey Sea trout will be lying in that pocket water that I can just reach with a double-haul cast. The fly will be a size 10 Executioner, tied and donated by Alf Gaskell, and I’ll be using my 5 weight, 10ft Sage fly rod; a rod that is springy enough to handle leaping Sea trout without pulling the hook. I’ve been told that split-cane is even better, but I’ve yet to try it for myself.
Out will go the line with a song behind it. This little pocket water is always productive, and even the odd salmon comes out of it - a real thrill on my light outfit. But tonight it will be a Sea trout, of that I’m sure.
There will be a solid bang! and then the little Abel reel that I fish with will sing louder than me as the hooked Sea trout tears off, jumping and cartwheeling as it goes. I’ll play it to my feet, slide my hand down the leader to the hook and, with a quick flick, release it while it’s still in the water to scoot off back to its lair.
I might have another cast or two here, but with the light going and the bats whirring overhead, I will move down to the next pool - a long, even-flowing glide that is a little piece of heaven on earth. A woodcock will be circling overhead, squeaking its call, in a “roading” flight like a large ethereal moth.
I will start at the head of the pool and cast across at a sharp angle, always remembering that I once took a 10lb salmon from here on this very rod using a size 12 Grouse and Claret. There will be no salmon tonight though; tonight the Sea trout will be on.
I'll hear the plops and splashes of the rising fish, even though the light is now so low that I'll see very little. I’ll be casting out of habit now; I know this pool well so I'll have no problems with this and long ago I learned to fish with a single fly only at night to maximise fishing time and minimise tangle time. I’ll wade stealthily down, casting squarely across the current and retrieving line in a figure of eight pattern as I go.
Bang! A miss. It’ll come again and with another bang I’ll miss it again. I’ll wade on, casting silently - my singing will have stopped along with the light.
Bang! and he’ll be on, tearing away with the scream of the reel cutting the silence of the night. Another school fish of two pounds or thereabouts, eventually brought to hand and released.
A couple of steps and I'll be directly across from the burn mouth, where the big fish hang in the meeting of the two currents. A couple of casts later and bang! right where he is supposed to be. This time he will be heavier and mean business right from the start. All of the fly line and twenty or more yards of backing will disappear into the blackness to the little Abel’s shrieking protests. I’ll bring him back to me and off he will surge again. Twice more this will happen before I’ll slide him up the grass to look at a stunning five pound bar of silver.
Back he'll go and I’ll step back in whence I came.
I’ll fish down to the tail of the pool. This is where I take most of the salmon when fishing for Sea trout in this pool, just at the drop off into the deep water past the bushes on my side. Not tonight, however. Just at the very last cast, bang! and another fish will be on. It will tear off like the others, but I’ll be the master of it and get it ashore more quickly than before.
I’ll keep this one, because they’re so good to eat and, well, because it just feels right.
The Merlot buzz will be gone by now and, tired from a days salmon fishing and half a nights Sea trout fishing, I’ll call it quits. I’ve been promising myself to stay later to fish with a sinking line and a big fly - the way everyone tells me to catch the really big Sea trout - but somehow, like always, I know that enough is enough for now.
Although I’ll know that this has been a uniquely special night, I'll tell myself that there will always be tomorrow night and I’ll walk back to the cottage to write up my diary in the now cool kitchen, and maybe have a nightcap before bed.
But I'll wake up wishing I'd stayed out.
Chic McSherry June 1999