Let me free: time to go fly fishing…

It’s breakdown for the lockdown. Traffic jams are returning to London, as the definition of “Is your journey really necessary?” becomes ever more flexible, driven by human ingenuity and the need to get out. The prime minister, clearly still well below par last Thursday, waffles on, promising to give us some idea of what happens next, but not for yet another week.

The troops are revolting, despite threats from the Home Secretary or police tallies of those caught out of doors without a convincing excuse. Increasing numbers are doing the calculation: get stopped by the rozzers and land a £60 fine (£30 for prompt payment) versus yet another day in lockdown, and finding that the risk/reward looks quite attractive.

I should say that I have rigorously complied, thanks in part to pressure from my family, who seem to value the rest of my 73-year-old life rather higher than I do. However, the temptation to break free is rising along with the trout that I love to catch. This month sees the annual miracle of the mayfly. After two years thugging about on the river bed, this monster insect swims to the surface and grows wings. For a minute or two, it waits for them to dry before attempting flight.

The fish go nuts for these three-inch long protein snacks. And not just the fish. Coots, moorhen, ducks, swallows, house martins, flycatchers and wagtails are all at the smorgasbord. For the fishermen, this is duffers’ fortnight, when even the most incompetent cast can fool the fish. There are even moments when casting is tricky, either to find a gap in the traffic on the surface, or to avoid impaling another of those species at the feast.

Some expert anglers think this is all too easy, preferring to wait until later in the season when only perfect presentation of the right fly will induce a take from fish which have become wary (and well fed). Those of us who are, ahem, less proficient, love duffers’ fortnight because it proves we can catch fish after all. But the clue is in the name. It only lasts two weeks, and those two weeks are in May. The mayfly know nothing of coronavirus; they’ve just got to hatch, and once they are gone, they’re gone for another year. The lockdown is not just a few weeks, it is the few weeks.

So here comes the commercial. My journey is really necessary for my continuing sanity (I’ll pay £100 to a fishing charity) and I promise no social interaction at less than six feet, whether in the car park, on the river bank or in the fishing hut (if wet). From the front door, to the 39 steps to the car, on the road and to the fishery, nothing contagious will escape. I’d even offer to wear a mask, although that just seems too satirical. Besides, I’m confident that my family and I have all had the virus more than a fortnight ago, fortunately not badly. So please, pretty please, can I go fishing before the mayfly are all gone?