Heaven sends a secret spot to join bypass brigade

Sometimes in fishing you have to be secretive, and not mention people or places. This is one of those times. I was somewhere in the northern hemisphere, on a natural lake. Not a man-made, still-water thing.

I arrived in an un-marked Range Rover. In front of me was a hill so steep that its fields and boundaries and livestock seemed almost to be in 2D. The farmer was just arriving too, high up on the hill, on a quad bike to give the sheep their feed. How things have changed, I thought, since my grandfather had his goat herd. Feed, if it were given at all, never arrived atop a motorised engine. The sheep raced toward the farmer, like iron filings to a magnet, eager for their breakfast.

Time to tackle up and put on waders, as I had no wellingtons with me. It always takes me ages to put waders on, because my wading boots (I have stocking feet waders) seem to shrink two sizes between each wear. I hobbled to the water's edge to be met by a man whom we will call Elvis. He seemed rather confused, as if the combination of fishing plus girl was one that foxed him slightly.

We walked up the bank. "I've got the best spot for you," Elvis said proudly, "you're sure to catch fish there." I resisted the urge to be cross, as this patronage was kindly meant. A small group of men and a boy passed us. "Thanks," Elvis nodded to them and I realised with a heavy heart that they had given up "the best spot" for me. We reached the supposed magic place and I started to fish.

Elvis walked a little further up the bank and, every 15 seconds or so, would gesticulate instructions to me from his post: "Fish over here, over there, move up a bit, go in a bit." At times I'm afraid I was a bit mean and just pretended not to see him, leaving him to wave his arms around all to himself. At other times I saw him but just dug my little wading boots in deeper, and carried on fishing in exactly the same spot.

Further down the water's edge there were half a dozen men. Every now and again I would spin round to catch them all watching, anxiously waiting for me to catch a fish so that I wouldn't think "their" lake was rubbish. (As if!) The air was heavy with anticipation. "Please God," I offered, "let me catch a fish." Almost immediately I had a fishie on. (I am ex-convent so I do have some sway.)

Within seconds Elvis was by my side. I could see him, out of the corner of my eye, behind my back doing the thumbs up sign to the others. Both thumbs. I felt like we had parented a child together. "Phew," I thought, feeling the sort of relief only a male porno star could empathise with, "I've done my bit, now it's up to you guys."

I relaxed, they relaxed and we all carried on fishing. Elvis left me and went around the "corner" so he was out of sight and, more importantly, I was. I experimented a bit with fishing fast, slow, far and wide. The sort of things you do when you can. Suddenly, Elvis was back, waving his arms even more frantically, pointing at the sky. A huge bird, with rounded wing tips and a bouncy flight, was causing a commotion among the other birds. "Osprey," mouthed Elvis. Gosh. A rare sight indeed.

I watched as the osprey was eventually bullied away and flew out of sight, dipping behind the big hill, no doubt making for new skies where the pickings were easier. At that moment, another fish bit as if to remind me that I was there for matters piscatorial and not ornithological. "I bet you've never seen such a wild brownie?" asked, and answered, Elvis. "No," I lied, wondering how deep the lake was.

After a bit I decided to have a break and went to chat to the others. Everyone, it seemed had recently had a heart attack which I found difficult to believe if they spent so much time in surroundings such as these. The talk was all of triple bypasses and enforced changes to life styles as we ate white-bread sandwiches, fizzy drinks and crisps and I said the word "gosh" 147 times.

We chatted for quite some time while the birds and the sheep went about their daily business on the other side of the lake. Elvis brushed some chips off his shoulder and, I guess, so did I. And we had a great morning's fishing.

a.barbieri@independent.co.uk