The Rod woke on a still Sunday morning and looked eastward through the window.
It was a cloudy, cold and windless day - perfect trout catching weather. With conditions so strongly in his favour, The Rod felt confident enough to brave a return to Walthamstow Reservoir, the dark waters where he had suffered so much trout-less torment in the past.
Verily, the water was still! (and Picturesque!)
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The Rod was indeed optimistic
And rightly so, for within half an hour he spotted a hover of three trout swimming in formation along the bank. He deftly placed a Diawl Bach ahead of them and ensnared one upon his hook!
The trout seemed a little small and after removing the hook carefully The Rod held it in the water and began to contemplate whether it was takable or not. The trout decided 'not' and slipped away before The Rod had finished his contemplations.
Resolved to be more decisive going forwards, The Rod wandered a little along the bank and after a brief parley with a fellow fly fisherman switched to a Minkie on a sinking line, which it was assured to him would elicit the most monstrous trout from the deep.
Indeed, only a few moments later a far worthier opponent was wrestling with the other end of his line. After bringing it ashore The Rod felt he had indeed conquered his nemesis and a rosy picture painted itself in his imagination, of many trout-filled days to come at Walthamstow Reservoirs.
After another hour fishing the same technique and getting nothing, The Rod had the sense of teetering on the edge of a black abyss, and made a strategic decision to retreat to the pub over the road.
Verily the pub was convivial! The Sunday roast was excellent and there was even a lovely fire in the hearth, the most convivial of pub convivialities.
The Rod did not sit too close to the fire, however, as he had a trout in his bag which he was sure would not benefit from being gently braised in its own juices. Indeed he had other designs for it involving the gentle application of alder smoke...
