At the tail-end of summer, Matt Eastham’s resolve is rewarded by a surprise evening rise
THERE IS SOMETHING VERY special about late-summer evening fishing and it feels like I spend more than three quarters of each year daydreaming about those precious few post-solstice weeks where — in my mind’s eye at least — the river is always in perfect nick, the weather always balmy and still, and the trout free-rising until darkness finally falls. The reality is less romantic, sadly, and for every blissful evening spent working slowly upstream with only insects and bats and enthusiastically feeding trout for company, there are another three or four spent forlornly surveying a sleeping river for signs of life that will never appear.
A good friend of mine isn’t a fan — why wait until last knockings to maybe find a few feeding fish and then spend a frantic half hour in a desperate race against the clock as the light fades and it becomes impossible to see what you’re casting at? That’s his argument, but I disagree. For me, there is absolutely nothing to beat the sense of anticipation that builds once the shadows begin to lengthen and the first rings of a rising trout are spotted away up the pool.
I fondly recall an evening last summer when I met Dave Smith, following what had proved a particularly lean spell for both of us. It began to rain soon after we arrived and the next hour was spent sheltering under the lid of my car boot, drinking pale ale and bemoaning the awful luck we were having.
Meanwhile, the breathless air ensured a dirty grey cloud stayed put overhead, while in every other direction, the sky seemed clear. After what seemed like an age, the rain eased and at the flick of a switch, we were forced to pull ourselves together and quit moaning — the pool below had sprung to life and out of nowhere, a queue of trout appeared, rising like clockwork as far upstream as we could see. With two hours of light left, we had the luxury of taking turns to pick off brown trout of real quality. It was a glorious, life-affirming evening, undoubtedly one of the highlights of the season. It only takes one or two of those a year to keep me going.
More recently, I paid a visit to a favourite beat on the Cumbrian Eden. A spell of hot weather had put a halt to river-trouting hereabouts, so it was a relief when cooler conditions prevailed and I could resume operations before the nights really began to draw in.
For a long time, it appeared I'd be disappointed. I’m always intrigued by how quiet the river can be at this time of year — heavy air, few insects, and the riotous birdsong of only a few weeks before, completely silenced. I spend long hours waiting and watching for signs: wagtails hopping on to marginal stones; spinners gathering above ba
