“Would you like to go fishing today?” smiled Mrs S sweetly, across the breakfast table. Some questions dont require an answer do they? And when the alternative to riverside escape involved spending the day in the company of the tyrannical female hierarchy of the inlaws, all I could manage by way of a response was a gurgling and inane laugh.

So then, an unexpected opportunity, granted from that most unexpected source of bounty; and with nearly two months since my last trip to the river, my fingers fair trembled in anticipation.

Sometimes, however, anticipation can be the enemy of the angler, building optimism where perhaps on this occasion only gratitude ought to exist. Climbing away from Ross, the Monnow Valley was shrouded in dank, miserable, grey, sponge like clouds. The river, whilst lower and clearer than for weeks was still hurtling along like a goods train through a country station and the scars of the recent spate everywhere to be seen: Enormous dune like deposits of silt, pristine except for the occasional scratch marks of bird tracks; grassy banks with every blade combed flat by the weight of the water; and those tell tale rag-tag birds nest rafts of twiggy crap in places where no self-respecting bird would think of building.

I had come prepared though, two rods tackled up, one for a spot of bugging, the other my standard NZ/Duo set up… and in retrospect that I think, was my first mistake. I hadn’t anticipated just how differently the river would be behaving, or what the consequences for the fishing would be. Water that I had come prepared to bug, was a rushing torrent, and those nice tight narrow food lanes that I like to search with the duo were more like six-lane-motorways, where would the fish be? Too many questions in my mind and no obvious solutions other than to chuck the flies in the water and give it a try.

The CZ rig was first up and two nice fish came to hand fairly quickly, a nice trout and a good grayling. I struggled though, just two odd fish where in my minds eye there were plenty more, detecting takes wasn’t easy - or maybe it was but there weren’t many fish feeding - who knows. Downstream of the bridge pool the water is normally 15″ deep and still as plate glass. Today, deeper and with a hint of chop and riffle it looked perfect water for the single nymph below a dry. Here though it was a question of thinking where the fish might be. Under the banks seemed to be as good a place as any to start and first cast produced a lovely silver lady of 13/14″ or so but the rest of the stretch: diddly squat. Why? What was the difference between that first cast and those subsequent? Could it just be coincidence that I put my first cast where the one solitary feeding fish in the stretch had taken station? It would seem unlikely… wouldn’t it? Other spots mirrored the above experience, the odd fish or pull but never with that “I’m in amongst ‘em” feeling that I felt sure would come eventually. But it never did and I finished with a total of six fish in an afternoons fishing and only a handful of missed takes. Not bad but not what I’d anticipated or expected. It was a day for reflection and questions, but the trouble with this line of questioning is that the answer lies in experience. You have to submit yourself to this kind of lottery now and again I think; today the river was still in convalescence and a few days short of ideal conditions. The fish too, are still rebuilding their confidence, tucked safely out of the main currents in the bankside avenues or hard on the bottom where I hadn’t been scientific enough in my approach to reach them consistently.

Still as Rob pointed out over a hastily arranged pint in The Bridge Inn afterwards: “You got out fishing and you caught some fish” Nuff said I think!

Here’s one memory of the session: