The sunshine

“Exhausted from their efforts they lay prostrate on the water, glued to the meniscus, quivering feebly, the most finely presented fish food that ever was”

Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

With the wind blowing consistently from the north and east we really ought not to expect the kind of weather we have lately been blessed with. There seems to be no accounting for it, but we shall enjoy the sun while it lasts regardless of the reasons for this strange shift in conditions.
I took a too-rare opportunity to take to the water in search of a trout but found every one of them disinclined to oblige my hunter-gatherer instinct. For the most part they dislike the sun, preferring to stay deep in the water out of reach of the angler, caring nothing for the skill of his craft. The most exquisitely tied artificial fly will never take a trout until the fish itself takes a mood of enthusiasm, no matter how delicate the cast or persistent the effort.
However, there comes a time when the trout must feed. When the days are long and hot, this time generally comes around after the majority of anglers have given up on the day and headed for other pastures. With the sun low in the sky they have berthed their boats and left the water, convinced there are no fish in the lake. But there are, and if only they would change their habits they would meet with them more often. I frequently see fisher men and women coming in as I am going out. No doubt they have important business to attend…
It is too hard to find a day for fishing; the world is a busy place and we must fight to keep ourselves afloat. An angling trip often has to be planned well in advance and might be anticipated with relish for some time. When the day arrives, we are quite naturally in a hurry to get on the water. And we so we fish through the unproductive parts of the day and head for home to face those other chores that were neglected in our morning haste.
Now I know of some, and they are few, who are happy to work through the day and do their fishing at night. These men nearly always come in with a trout or two, finding action through the hour of dusk and the first hour of darkness. Accordingly, after a spot of tea, I went back out and joined them.
If I had to choose one place and time to stay forever it might be on a boat at dusk in my favorite corner of Lough Carra in the month of May. The breeze was warm, ruffling the surface of the water just enough to create a musical ripple. The Twin Islands cast a hazy reflection that picked out the colours of the setting sun. A small number of curlew were gathering to roost on the far shore, their cries carrying against the wind, lonely, lost, atmospheric voices. Swallows flocked overhead, come for a final fly-feast before retiring.
A speck appeared in the wavelets, and a mayfly dun took to the air on its first miraculous flight. Another followed, and then came a five-minute flood of hundreds, before the hatch petered out. Flies sat along the edge of the boat and even over me, to gather strength before departing for the island trees where they would moult, each one shedding its skin to reveal a still more delicate and beautiful insect, the mayfly spinner (these are the only known family of insects to undergo a secondary moult as winged adults).
The mayfly is normally a favourite food item of the trout, but nothing stirred while the hatch was on. But then those that had hatched previously, hours or days before, came dancing out from the trees. For a short time there were small clouds of them engaged in a courtship of great finesse. They broke off into pairs and slowly drifted away, the clouds dissipating like a summer haze at evening.
Then they were gone, as if they had never been. Apart, that is, from the bodies of spent mayfly. Exhausted from their efforts they lay prostrate on the water, glued to the meniscus, quivering feebly, the most finely presented fish food that ever was. A noise like a cork being drawn from a bottle alerted me to the whereabouts of a feeding fish.
It was suddenly night. I threw my fly rather clumsily; another pop. The line slid away into the darkness, beyond the call of the curlew. The screech of an owl caught at the rasp of my reel, and the water rippled, mirthful. What a place.