We’d visited Kingfisher Trout Fishery and Campsite at Bromyard, Herefordshire on a couple of pre-Covid occasions and thus managed to convince ourselves – having suffered a dearth of fishing opportunities on the trip so far – that it was on our route home. Having tweaked the journey plan to accommodate just a slight diversion from the tedium of the northbound M5, we phoned ahead and – enjoying a frisson of friendly recognition on answer- booked ourselves a half-days’ worth of fluff-chucking in this agreeably rural spot.
So it was, in the pouring rain, we reacquainted ourselves with the on-site owners, parked the Knumptywagen waterside and began to pick over the remaining contents of the fridge while we waited for the rain to stop. Which it did, and the sun came out, lighting an autumnal crown of colour which surrounded the naturalised fishing pool as we expectantly tackled up the fly-rods and donned our fishing greens, tucking trousers firmly down into welly-tops.
And then we fished.
On almost her second cast, the CNO experienced what’s known in the trade as a knock, which thrilled and stimulated her – thinking this presaged an enjoyable and productive session. Sadly, it was not to be as this isolated, inquisitive sub-surface tasting of the artificial fly represented the only contact with anything piscatorial during the entire afternoon. Obviously, anglers around the world can always draw on a reliable and seemingly bottomless supply of anecdotal evidence as to why no fish were caught during any particular session, and with the preceding storms, heavy rain and associated atmospheric pressure all contributing to the fish just being ‘off it’ for the day, we justifiably drew our session to a close.
With dusk drawing in around us, we retired to the van – listening to yet more rain beginning to drum a repetitive paradiddle on the roof – and slowly cobbled what was left of our provisions into an evening meal, our last van-based supper of the trip. Wine was taken and obviously would need to be finished, so we repaired to our over-cab bed with our senses comfortably numbed enough to attempt sleep – despite the fact that it was probably only nine-o-clock.
And finally, as a fitting epilogue to a weeks-worth of or Cornish trip, I’m delighted to reproduce here the final uncharacteristically brief note I find scribbled into our dog-eared travel journal: “Awoke, breakfasted and travelled home to unpack and settle back in.”
Catch up with you again soon!