The Sixteen Pound Bream

Arlington Reservoir - it's big

Have a look at that. Look at the size of the place. Now scoot on over to my Adurman blog and see the kind of places I normally fish and you'll understand my discomfort. And Sean - friend, teacher, driver, photographer, tackle lender, fly fisherman extraordinaire - tells me this is nothing. As reservoirs go, it has size issues, it's inadequate, a mere puddle.

Remember that my previous expeditions for trout have led me to rather different places. My early years were spent on the Misbourne and Chess in Buckinghamshire, chalk streams both. Then came the wild burns of Scotland's east coast, and then a solitary trip to the Test or maybe it was the Itchen...yes, I know I should know.

Still, the forecast promises 'sunny intervals' and Sean says the wind's in the right direction. We repair to a patch of open grass on a little hill above the reservoir to practice casting. Sean's good. He's encouraging, understands when to back off and knows when I've had enough. Within half an hour we both reckon I can cast far enough to make fishing worthwhile, especially as the reservoir drops off quickly and the fish come nosing into the edges looking for food.

Fly casting - it's just like Etch-a-Sketch

We trudge round to the dam side of the reservoir (I nearly said 'damn size' there...hmmm) and begin casting. I have a single fly on while Sean fishes with three. This seems to me to give him an advantage, but he's the boss and anyway, tired arm aside, I'm enjoying this. To be fair, there's no consistency in my casting and my arm seems to have a mind of its own, but I can throw the fly far enough to breed confidence and after an hour, I even imagine a small tug as I retrieve.

That's another thing. I thought there was dry fly fishing where the fly drifted on the surface and wet fly fishing, where it drifted below the surface. This feels more like spinning or plug fishing and is more active, more enjoyable. It's also very wet. No sooner have we slogged round to the dam than the rain starts. At first, I tough it out, but soon it's time for the poncho. I look like a druid. Apparently.

The wind shifts, the rain continues to fall and Sean is a little less optimistic. We've met one angler so far who's caught anything, and he isn't us. Moving further round, trying to find more favourable conditions we settle in again but my casting's gone. I find this at various points during the day - I just lose what little technique I've acquired and can't cast for shit. Instead, I brew up the kettle and have coffee. Then, it's another half hour before we wander off up and round, into the trees, heading for the other side of the reservoir where most of the boats have gathered. It's pretty beautiful.

Above Arlington - I've learned how to do captions

Back down the other side and the rain keeps coming. At least we've seen a couple of anglers on the boats catch fish, trout which hurl themselves into the air as if being electrocuted. I can't wait 'till it's my turn. Sean suggests a different fly. This one is green, bug-eyed and is designed to be wiggled through the water. It's imitating some kind of green wriggly thing that I don't quite catch, but it feels alright. By now everything is so wet that the line keeps getting tangled - or rather the line, the leader and the tippet keep getting wrapped round each other in ways that are increasingly exotic and time-consuming to fix. After a while I leave my magnifying glasses clipped to my real glasses because there's no point taking them off. Cast, retrieve, cast retrieve, cast, tangle.

And so it goes on. Cast, retrieve, cast, retrieve, cast, tangle, cast, retrieve, cast, tug, stop, retrieve, tug, strike, fish. Fish?!? Yes, it's a official. It's a fish. In a second, I realise I have no idea how to play it. I've got 20 feet of line pooled in circles at my feet and a reel so tiny it retrieves about three inches per turn. I grip the line with my mouth and start reeling in frantically. Keeping contact with the fish is easier than I imagined. My trout isn't leaping from the water or skittering across the surface of the lake. Instead, it's staying deep and tugging lethargically. My trout doesn't seem to have the energy of the others here, that kind of Tesla-infused electric madness that sends them ballistic. In fact my trout is barely fighting at all, because my trout is a bream.

Yes. I've spent £16.00 on a four fish limit and the only thing I catch is the kind of fish that my other blog is full of - except one quarter of the size. Apparently you can take the man out of the Adur, but you can't take the Adur out of the man. And here it is. The mighty bream. A fish of legend. That mythical...etc.

My first ever fish on a fly - a 6oz skimmer bream

So that's it. I can cast far enough to catch something. I know a hundred times more about fly fishing than I did on Wednesday - and I've caught my first fish on a fly. Sean has loaned me a rod which cost more than all my fishing tackle put together. I can see it from here. I'm terrified to take it out, let alone practice with it. But I must. I have the bug.

Ich bin ein fly fisherman...