The River Dochart, in Summer

Verily, The Rod has been wandering many years, spreading The Word and bringing forth his likeness realised in Little Rods running hither thither.  How long has it been since he caught a trout?  Perhaps not as long as it may seem, but certainly these trout are worth reporting on.  Not for their size, for they are indeed minuscule, but for the delightful and bucolic setting in which they were pursued and the mighty company to be had in a great re-union with The Doctor, Phil.

Behold, a bridge! And a tent on a car!

The Rod arrived a day before his compatriot, but was not left wanting for company.  His days were blessed by the peaceful swimmings of a badger touring its domain.  

Ah, but his nights were mightily disturbed.  At first The Rod thought some demonic Scottish wilderbeast was lobbing typewriter sized boulders into the river.  After some correlation with events witnessed the following day, he determined that they were just the mad splashings of the badgers, smacking their tails against the water having a "Mine tail splash is'th bigger than thou'ths" party.

Nonetheless, he got some sleep and went down river to try his luck the next morning.  It is worth saying that the weather was mightily un-Scottish in Scotland that week.  Warm and sunny with light winds just strong enough to keep the midges at bay, it was Beyond Utopian.  Several weeks of warm weather had in fact let the water levels drop to very low levels, at which point the larger trout decamp to the lochs.  Unperturbed, The Rod cast onwards and within only a few minutes had landed his first trout of the trip:

Admittedly a bit on the small side, but from here there's no doubt that the only way is up!

A bit further downstream The Rod stalked a trout rising at the bottom of the V in some small rapids with great success.  A very fine specimen of a very small brown trout.

(Left photo: tinder profile, right photo: reality?)

Fret not.  This trout was very quickly returned unharmed to the water after its portraits were hastily taken.

But then, the telephone did ringeth and Dr Phil declared himself to be in the area and ready to join forces on this epic battle of man vs trout.  And so we walked, and so we casted, and behold, what scenery!

But wait!

Man can't survive on endless fruitless casting punctuated only by the occasional capture of a minuscule baby trout, no matter how bucolic and magnificent the surroundings are! Man must eat, and if suitably sized trout aren't in the offing then what is a man going to do?  Eat the forbidden cheese I say!  The mildest cheddar known to man!

Yes, mild cheese, mixed with other things.  Some vegetablish in nature, some not.  This disturbed Dr Phil somewhat, as he seemed to be used to one or t'other.

"We dun eat tha' 'round 'ere"

But, let's be clear...  all shackles of society had been cast away the very moment we had stepped foot on the undulating green grasses of the banks of the Dochart River.  We were wild men, living a wild balanced-diet dream, and thoroughly sated with all the best that the Tescos veg section had to offer, it was time to settle into sleeping bags and watch the sun set on the might(il)y (small) Dochart River!

God knows The Rod dreamt of fish that night.  Big fish, small fish.... mainly small fish.  We needed other distractions on this curious hunt, so the next day we decided to start being more scientific in our explorations, by pointing at things.

A beaver was here

This tree is fluffy

The Rod hooked a fish here that wasn't small

This insect has probably survived because of its massiveness, in comparison to the trout.

But, I hear you ask: "what insights can The Rod can share as to the fly fishing techniques and tricks that have achieved the best results on this lovely river?"  Well, I'll say to you this: 

The spider pattern was very popular with the fish, although they usually turned away at the last minute, like indecisive Ceroc dancers.  You would get the splash of a strike around the fly, but nothing on the hook when you struck.  Good sport, of a sort.

.  

Greenwell's Glory was a pattern that had been spoken of as being productive on this river, and this was borne out too, on a smaller scale of course.  

There was a lot of walking involved, indeed we covered many miles in a day.  It was pleasant, but vigorous. And, of course, mightily bucolic.

The next morning we feasted on things both vegetable-ish, and not.  Save the porridge for the house-bound, we shall dine on ... this!

And, more fishing!  I jest, but indeed we had spotted a couple of not-tiny trout and they did give us good sport.

But then sadly, as quickly as the tiny trout had come to the fly (sometimes), the end of the adventure lumbered towards us and we made preparations for a return to civilisation.  True to the wit of this work of fiction, The Rod would claim that we went for a swim

And then it was time to return to our families and tell tall tales about The One That Got Away, That Wasn't Small, That Lived in Bucolic Surroundings.