Sight to warm the heart in icy Scotland

Sleet rattled on my jacket, speeded on its way by a cruel north wind. For the third time, I emptied the contents of the net. Circulation had long since abandoned my hands as I swirled the water in the dish, better to see the creatures that I had captured. My spirits rose; the river was a veritable trout's pantry. There were caddis larvae, Baetid nymphs, stone fly nymphs the size of Labrador puppies and more March brown nymphs than you could shake a sick at.

My companions were all out, inexplicably, fishing for salmon. When they returned to the hut for lunch, empty handed, naturally, my tray of invertebrates lay on the table by the door. They were enthralled by what they saw; staggered at the size of the stone fly nymphs and blown away by the sheer number of caddis and March brown nymphs. As they huddled round the gas fire, urging blood to return to exsanguinated extremities, I collected my trout rod and strode purposefully down the river, head bowed against a flurry of snow.

On the edge of the river, fly box in hand, my eyes searched the scurrying currents for clues as to which concoction of fur and feather might first grace my leader, Simon our ghillie silently appeared beside me. Hunkered into his Harris Tweed, he said nothing, but simply pointed at the spectacle before us. Suddenly, the air was full of adult March brown flies. Every square foot of water bore four or five tawny mini sail boats for as far as we could see in all directions. Furthermore, we were not alone. Swirls and slashes just below the surface were enough to tell me that the resident brown trout were intercepting the nymphs as they hatched into adults.

It was all over within five minutes, not a fly remained to be seen but the fish were busily mopping up the still-born and drowned adults, just as I had hoped and expected. Abandoning all thoughts of fishing, I legged it back to the hut and harried five newly thawed salmon specialists outside. They agreed that the sight of the feeding trout warmed the blood of any angler.

The following morning we huddled around my fly box examining representations of March brown nymphs and spider patterns that would serve as imitations of the drowned adults. With obvious excitement, my converts scuttled off to try their hand at proper fishing. Douglas was the first to return, wearing an ear-connecting grin and carrying a magnificent brown trout which he had already christened "supper".

One by one my friends returned, all having accounted for decent trout, and were proud of their achievements. Everyone was gathered except Willie, last seen heading to the top of the beat. I found him there, fishless but undaunted. "Just show me one more time how to cast these flies" he said.

A little later, in the gathering Scottish gloom, I returned to the cottage. I was just contemplating the glass of restorative amber fluid when my 'phone shrilled. "It's Willie" exclaimed an excited voice. "I got two, just below the island, one at two pounds and another one a lot bigger. Fantastic!" I agreed and returned to my contemplations.

Flies tied by Stephen Cheetham. 0113 250 7244.

www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk

CW 5/6/10