The Pit, the Pendulum and Walthamstow Reservoir

Not six miles from from my weathered front door step in foggy, smoggy, groggy London Town lies the deep and mysterious water of Walthamstow Reservoir.  Verily, it is picturesque!

That brooding neo-Edwardian building on the right above ... is the loo.  A crystal clear stream meanders along the approach to the lake... Oh how my striking arm twitched at the thought of the bountiful harvest of trout awaiting me!

Pleased I was too, to be sporting my new tweed cap.  English trout are known to have discerning tastes in anglers.

Now, we must pause a moment.  We must pause, and I must be honest - this is not the first time that I have been to this place.  In fact ... with the upbeat tone I have struck so far in my writings to you today, you will almost certainly have quite the wrong impression....

Because, you see, Walthamstow Reservoir, is actually something of a soul destroying-ly challenging water to fish.  And today was the fifth time that I have visited this cursed place, since I last wrote.  Each time I swear to myself I will never succumb to the temptation of proximity again... to never again believe the gravelly words of the emptied out, hollowed anglers that I have met:"When it's good, it's gooood" they drawl..   What is good??  Not drowning?!

Admittedly I did have success on a previous visit to these dark waters...   It was the fourteenth of July - a date I won't quickly forget...

I arrived at 9 o'clock on the morning, for a nice early start.  I was prepared for the rain that was forecast (and that arrived).  I was prepared with a packed lunch, in case I wanted to carry on into the afternoon.  I was most solicitously prepared, for anything....  Anything, except:  twelve hours of fruitless, frustrating, barren casting before - just when I was about to impale myself on my 6-weight rod - the acrid waters expelled a demigorgon onto my hook:

Devil Spawn of Walthamstow

Why give a broken man such false glimmers of hope! Why!!

The fly I caught it on?  Resemble a crucifix, did it? Not quite ... after trying every respectable fly in my box at least two or three times during the course of that torturous day, at 9.30pm I decided I might as well try "the orange thing" that had come into my possession on the last trip to Scotland, fishing with Dr Pip.  It was from the hut at Loganlea reservoir, wherein we were paying our fees when a bearded man lept from the couch to my side, and whispered into my ear "You'll be wanting one of theeese, laddie".  His crooked finger was pointing at a box of large, garish orange lures...

I would not be surprised to learn that Loganlea doesn't actually have a hut.

Anyway, read on to learn how today's fishing went...