It is still very early into the new season and the River Wylie is still half asleep and not yet disturbed by the clumsy footfall of anglers, clowning dogs and boys with anything to throw. The water carries nothing with it. Not yet transport to merging duns or clinging nymphs it remains passenger free and alone. That will change soon enough as the water warms and the insects emerge from the tassles of waving weed and into the bright light of May. For now though, I am just enjoying watching a small section of the river as it arcs through a tunnel of trees and bankside bushes. I love this time of year. I watch the flow and the contours of the pool and imagine where fish should be.
Is it the sense of familiarity that brings us back to rivers? The knowledge and experience that there ought to be a fish in a particular lie. I like the tension of not knowing whether a particular place in the river might hold a fish. I could be right, but I may well be wrong and whilst reassured by the familiarity of a given section of river, I don’t want the certainty of always being right. I don’t want to fish a spot always knowing that a fish will be there. I want to deconstruct the structure of the river, the undulating depth, the pace of the flow, the clarity of the water and the promise of the bubble line. All are signals but not a signpost that you will succeed. Certainty is never good in fishing. Why bother if there is nothing to learn?
It’s the sense of possibility that has me enthralled and as I stand mid stream and watch the water I make a mental note to do things differently this season. To pause and to watch, to slow down and to fish all those places on this river which are unfamiliar.
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