Dever Springs' monsters gain their revenge on me

Dever Springs is a name that's long lodged in my head. Although, in the privacy of my mind I always call it "Denver Springs"; which conjures up stetsons and Rocky Mountains, even though these aren't quite accurate (Denver isn't actually in the mountains and did you know it is the most educated city in the US?). Dever Springs is where monster fish come from. The minimum stocking size is 3lb – usually about the biggest fish I catch; the heaviest fish caught there were a rainbow of 36lb 14oz and a brown trout of 28lb 2oz. Personally, I cannot see the point of fish being so very much larger than nature intended.

So, in the back of my mind, Dever Springs was not a place that ever interested me. In fact I'd be quite disdainful at any mention of it. "Hmm," I'd say, "great big, fat, flabby fish, what sport is involved in catching them?" But, a year or so ago, a fisherman I really respect said "it's actually really nice there and most of the people that slag it off have never been." That would be me then.

When Charles Jardine invited me to fish there as part of his and Gary Champion's "Fishing 4 For Food" initiative with the words "would you like to come and fish at Dever, it's going to be quite a sociable day we'll do some fishing, catch up, and we'll cook what we catch", I took my chance.

The thought of catching a monster fish not only didn't interest me, it horrified me. There are two lakes at DS and a bit of the river Dever which is very pretty and has some nice grayling, too. There were various people around, including one very silly person whom I was introduced to by my job title, as I was making up my rod, in full fishing uniform. "Do you fish then?" she asked, stupid as can be. This question always astounds me, not least because it would never be asked of a male fishing columnist. Just as I was forming a fist, Jardine stepped in and said "not half, she caught more fish than me last time." (This isn't true, but bless him).

Then I met someone called Simon who is part of the English Flyfishing team. Of course I was completely intimidated by this but – like most people that are really good at what they do – he was immensely modest, helpful and generally lovely. I started fishing immediately after breakfast of bacon sandwiches, having put on one of my slinky caramel ladies (actually a jointed damsel nymph). "What have you put on?" Simon asked. "Um, a thing" I said, fluffing as I suddenly realised that I didn't know the proper name of my fly ("was it a damsel? Was it a nymph? Was it completely the wrong fly? Was it a fly at all if it was a nymph?" This is how stupid I get when in the company of people who know more than me about fishing, which I perceive to be always). I pulled it out of the water, hot with shame. "That's a good choice. If that doesn't work, try something green and black." Off he went. The pressure to catch lunch, you see, was very strong. Thirty seconds later Simon had a fish on.

I fished diligently. I concentrated. I retrieved slowly, as if trying to remove a string of keys from a prison guard. I retrieved hard and fast as if pulling up the drawbridge as the enemy approached. I let the fly sink and twitched it. Simon would go past and say "retrieve quite fast", so I'd try that again. Then Charles would go past and say "retrieve quite slow", so I'd do that. But nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Luckily the others had caught fish in time for lunch, all about the 5lb mark. Charles and Gary (the one whose car I tried to steal, see last column) made the most delicious trout risotto of which I had three helpings.

That afternoon I switched to the other lake, heart beating at the thought of catching these "easy, monster fish"... Er, nothing. I returned to the original lake. Charles had caught at least three, Gary about the same. None of them were double figures, in so far as I could tell. But I didn't have a nibble all day long.

Fishing at Dever Springs was like going to a party where you think the pickings are going to be easy and you're going to have to fight off geeks all night (actually I've never been to a party like this). But what actually happens is that no one even asks you to dance, and you leave slightly confused; checking your reflection all the way home.

a.barbieri@independent.co.uk