And we're off

What a delight it is to see a river for the first time after a winter. To catch a first glimpse of the babbling waters of an old friend through branches just beginning to bud green, and assess in that expectant glance not only the turmoil of the winter-past but auguries of the season to come.  

I've never seen my secret Sussex stream looking so good, with almost a dash of chalkstream about it. 

It was too cold and wet for a picnic so the boys went off to a nearby softplay centre. An hour to myself. It's all I needed.

The river's verges were damp after an abnormally rainy winter. That explained the profusion of cuckoo flowers, a plant which likes to keep its roots moist. They sprouted liberally in the meadows beside the river, adding a pretty pink gloss. In folklore picking cuckoo flowers brings bad luck, because they are said to belong to fairies.

Whole trees had uprooted and fallen into the river. Nobody cares for this forgotten place, so the toppled chaos of oak and goat willow were now features at Nature's mercy. They lent the water a primeval feel, a reminder of how rivers once were and are meant to be. With the same mystery of a well to a child my gaze was drawn to where the water slowed and darkened and passed beneath toppled roots and boughs. I had a sense of fishing some Amazonian lagoon where large fish with long scientific names lurked to pounce on smaller fish with equally long scientific names. I tried a streamer. I have never done that on opening day. Nothing wanted it. Perhaps nothing was yet home.

I switched to the familiarity of a nymph, choosing a Pheasant Tail with a black bead from my box. The fishing wasn’t easy. The grip of winter still lingered. But a change to a gold bead Hare's Ear made all the difference, when a little trout came to the season-opening party. I hooked another of similar proportion which believed itself a bonefish, zipping here and there, then throwing the hook whilst I fussed with my net.

It's good to be back.