In a tackle shop you’ll find many flies which are designed to catch fish…and even more which are designed to catch fishermen

I first met Trevor quite by chance when I went to fish a particular beat which was known to offer some really good fishing – although it had seldom proved successful for me.  I’d parked in what served as a car park for the fishermen – actually just a roped of area in the corner of a field, barely big enough for two cars. He arrived pretty much at the same time as I did and, although we didn’t know each other, we soon got chatting about fishing.  Having tackled up we then walked together across the fields to the river.

‘Have you fished this beat before?’ I inquired as casually as I could.

‘Oh yes, many times,’ he assured me.  ‘It’s one of my favourites and I hear it’s fishing really well at present.’

I was tempted to say that I wasn’t finding that anywhere was fishing well, but realised that might be due to my own lack of skill so instead just nodded knowingly, hoping he was right.

‘So what fly are you planning to use?’ he asked.

‘I tend to decide when I get to the river and can see what fly life is about,’ I said.  ‘What about you?’

‘Ah!  That’s easy,’ he told me. ‘I only ever use one fly.’

Needless to say I was intrigued.  ‘You only use one sort of fly?  What on earth is it?’

 ‘It hasn’t got a name.  It’s one I designed myself but I call it my ‘lucky fly’ because it never fails.  I’ll show you what it looks like when we reach the river.’

 ‘But surely you’ve got some other patterns with you as well, just in case?’

He shrugged.  ‘Why bother?  It’s never let me down.’

I was incredulous.  ‘What, never?  Are you saying that you use just one fly and yet you’ve never blanked?’

‘Exactly,’ he assured me.  ‘And if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, that’s what I always say.’

As someone who always takes a box full of flies to the river, I could hardly believe what I was hearing.  ‘Presumably you’ve at least got the same fly in several different sizes?’ I asked.

He shook his head.  ‘Nope.  One size fits all,’ he said.

However unbelievable, the prospect of having just one fly which worked in every situation was very tempting if it meant there’d be no more agonising over which one to use and no more trying to second guess what the fish might be taking.  Yet, somehow, I knew it had to be too good to be true.

As soon as we reached the river I waited expectantly to see this miracle fly and was surprised when it turned out to be a very simple pattern tied on what was probably a size fourteen hook.  It looked for all the world like a common housefly, tied out of peacock herl for the abdomen and black foam for the remainder of the body, segmented to form a small head and fitted with white poly yarn for wings.  I must have shown my disappointment as I examined it.  ‘And that’s it?’ I asked, then realised that sounded a bit dismissive.  ‘I mean, it’s so simple that even I could tie it.’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ said Trevor, then proudly took the fly back and started to tie it onto his leader. 

‘So why don’t you call it a bluebottle or something?  After all, that’s what it looks like?’

‘I can’t bring myself to write ‘bluebottle’ in the catch return,’ he said laughing.   ‘Anyway, I expect you’re just like lots of other fly fishermen and take a hundred different patterns to the river every time you go fishing yet end up using your same old ‘favourites’ time and time again.’

I had to admit he was right.  ‘Even so, surely you can’t make do with just one?’

‘I can and I’ll prove it.  What say we have a little wager?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, not entirely comfortable in making a bet with a man I hardly knew and who claimed that he never blanked.

He then outlined a very simple plan whereby we would fish for three hours.  He would use his ‘lucky fly’ whilst I could select anything from my box provided it complied with the club rules.  Basically, that meant using a single dry fly, no nymphs and no lures.  The one who caught the fewest fish would buy pie and a few beers for us both at the pub afterwards.

He looked like a man who might enjoy more than an occasional beer and had certainly sampled his fair share of pies so losing the bet might prove a tad expensive.  However, undaunted, I accepted the challenge thinking that if there really was one fly which could be used for everything, it could well save me a small fortune at the tackle shop. Sportingly, I allowed him to choose where he wanted to start and, to my relief, he chose to go a little way upstream, leaving the first stretch to me.  That contained a pool which, although not fool proof, could often be relied upon to hold a trout or two.

With that Trevor went on ahead and, with the river to ourselves, we both looked forward to a good afternoon’s fishing, albeit with the added piquancy of having more than just bragging rights at stake.

For my part, I started out quite well by getting a few obvious follows and even a take, but I failed to get a fish on the bank.  With the first pool proving unproductive, I decided to move on to the next hopeful spot which, although difficult to access because of the trees, usually held fish.  Unfortunately, I lost my first two flies in a tree and then wasted precious time trying to sort out the ensuing tangle before tying on a new leader, so I decided to move on yet again.

After about an hour and a half I still had nothing to show for my efforts and was finding the fishing particularly hard as all the fish seemed spooked, probably by Trevor having already fished the river a little way ahead of me.  It was then that I realised what a chump I’d been.  That was probably exactly what Trevor intended when he elected to go on ahead.  Whether it was a bit of gamesmanship on his part I couldn’t say, but when I thought about it the ploy seemed so obvious that I kicked myself for not having seen through it!

I decided the best thing I could do would be to change my tactics. Whilst the club’s rules wouldn’t permit me to use a nymph at that time of year, there was nothing to stop me using a klinkhamer, so I hurriedly tied one on hoping it might tempt fish feeding both at and below the surface.  Unfortunately, even that didn’t work. 

With only one hour left, I still hadn’t caught a fish and was beginning to resign myself to the prospect of an expensive visit to the pub. The only hope I had was that Trevor couldn’t be that far in front of me yet I’d heard no cries of triumph.  I hoped that meant that despite his ploy, he was faring no better than I was. 

I reached the point where the next bend would lead me to the long glide at the far end of the beat which was usually a very productive stretch. I had visions of turning the corner and seeing Trevor smugly standing on the bank with a brace of trout at his feet and me turning up without a single fish to my credit.

I glanced at my watch again only to realise that we had less than thirty minutes to go before time was up.  I reckoned that the glide itself would be well and truly fished out by then so I contented myself with trying my luck in a small pool which I hoped Trevor hadn’t bothered with.  It was then that I heard an almighty shout followed by what sounded like a loud splash. 

Fearing he’d hooked and was busily fighting some monster sized trout, I rushed to see the spectacle for myself.  What I found was a very different scenario.

Trevor was in the river up to his waist at that point but had clearly suffered a complete ducking.  His hair was dripping wet, his glasses were askew and his hat was slowly floating away downstream.  Surely he hadn’t hooked a fish big enough to pull him in!

It was then that I realised what had really happened.  His ‘lucky fly’ was hanging from the branches of a nearby tree and still had much of the leader attached.  He’d obviously got it snagged whilst casting then overreached himself trying to retrieve it.  In the process he’d toppled in! 

I couldn’t resist a smile but managed to stop short of actually laughing as I helped him ashore.  I then used my net to retrieve his hat as he began stripping off his sodden clothes and wringing them out as best he could.  I did feel a bit sorry for him but, before I could say anything, a very strange thing happened.  It was as if the river had suddenly come to life and I could see several fish hoovering up all the invertebrates Trevor had stirred up by falling in!  There were no rises as such but a good deal more sub surface activity than I’d seen all afternoon. To my eternal disgrace, I couldn’t resist casting a fly to them.

The first fish took my klinkhamer almost at once and I had it on the bank within minutes.  As I despatched it with the priest, I noticed that Trevor hadn’t actually caught any fish himself but, not content with having won the bet, I went into a sort of fishing frenzy, picking off a second greedy trout with my very next cast.  By the time our three hours was officially up I’d bagged two very good fish and released one other in accordance with the club rules which allowed us to take just two fish each. 

With my victory complete, I put my rod down and tried to appear as sympathetic as I could.  ‘Have you got any spare clothes in the car?’ I asked him as we started back towards the beginning of the beat, me smugly carrying my two fish and him squelching along behind in his underpants with his wet clothes rolled up under his arm. 

He nodded.  ‘Hopefully enough to get me home without getting arrested for indecent exposure,’ he moaned.

We crossed the field and once back at the cars he produced a blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders in an attempt to keep himself warm.  ‘I think I overreached myself,’ he explained somewhat mournfully.

‘Never a good idea,’ I said consolingly.  ‘I’ve nearly done that myself a few times.  Now I always leave a fly if I can’t reach it.’

By then I did begin to feel guilty about taking advantage of a man when he was down in order to win the bet, despite the fact that I still suspected he’d been somewhat ‘competitive’ in the tactics he’d employed.  I therefore poured some tea from my flask and passed it to him.  ‘Here, maybe this will help to warm you up a bit.’

As he stood beside his car, cold and still shivering, it seemed that even the tea wasn’t enough to restore his spirits.  ‘I suppose my ‘lucky fly’ didn’t turn out to be quite so lucky after all,’ he moaned.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said stowing the fish I’d caught into a cool bag. ‘If you taking a dip whilst trying to reach it resulted in me catching three fish and winning the bet, then all I can say is that it turned out to be pretty lucky for me.’