Wet day rescued by Dove Bug

On Monday evening, Mark and I would participate in an evening dedicated to tasting Speyside malt whisky; on Tuesday we would fish the Derbyshire Derwent.

I was relishing the opportunity to fish this beautiful river.

I have marvelled at its magnificence as it emerges from Ladybower reservoir, scrutinised it from bridges and fantasised about the fish that it dwell therein.

Finally, I was offered the opportunity to cast a fly over it.

Just to add to the whole experience, my wife and I had booked a couple of nights at the marvellous Plough Inn near Hathersage.

The whisky tasting was a true educational experience, undertaken in convivial company and amid much merriment.

However, as we walked back to Mark’s house, there was a whiff of despondency in our conversation.

Although the rain had eased temporarily, it had poured for days before.

Added to this, daytime temperatures were decidedly Baltic; not the most appealing of fishing conditions.

Our main fear was that the river would be flooded and impossible to fish and the euphoria originating on Speyside was beginning to dwindle when my wife arrived to return me to the sanctity of the Plough.

We had decided that an early start was not indicated; more a weather than a whisky issue I promise you.

Mark’s arrival in the bar at 10 o’clock coincided with that of the next shower and two disconsolate would-be anglers shuffled off to the adjacent Leadmill Bridge to assess the situation.

Our worst fears were confirmed, the river was running like a train and quite badly coloured.

Mark had booked prime beats, so we went to investigate the possibility that a miracle might have made this section of the river fishable; a fool’s errand.

After some debate, we decided that the only fishing opportunities that day would be found high up the valley before the river Noe joins the Derwent.

Late morning found us leaning over Yorkshire Bridge. “If it was just me, I’d go home” announced Mark, breaking an ominous silence.

A call to the keeper confirmed that this beat was free, along with the whole of the rest of the beats.

There was a bit of a smirk on my friend’s face as he handed me my wading stick from the boot of his car.

“The keeper says that if I have anyone elderly with me, he’ll need one of these.” Just plain impudent I call it.

The river was just fishable, with care. Wading was a bit hazardous, but possible with caution.

We looked for likely places, sheltered from the main push of the current, where a trout may seek refuge. Nothing.

By mid afternoon our mood was low. “Should have fished the river Dove instead” offered Mark.

Clutching at straws, to lighten our spirits, my frozen fingers produced a couple of long forgotten flies from the box.

“Let’s try the Dove Bug then” I suggested. Cutting to the chase, the offering produced five trout from the tail of a shallow pool, finally bringing a smile to the faces of two bedraggled friends.

I have to tell you that as I walked back into the Plough, I was met by Melissa, wearing her usual beaming smile.

Before I could even speak, I was ushered to a table by the roaring fire and a pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord ale materialised as if by magic.

My wading boots were soon drying by the same fire and Bob had relieved me of soaking wet waders promising to return them next morning.

Marvellous service I reckon.