Before six had struck I was restless and had to
get up. Nearly two hours before I got out of bed I had awakened to the twittering of birds and by the time the dawn chorus was in full voice sleep was impossible and I began to anticipate my day at the lake, taking trout after trout on a string of Greenwells that sometimes changed to Black Gnats or Mallard and Claret. I could stand it no longer when the birds fell silent. They had announced the day, and time was slipping away, minute after minute of precious morning. It took me less than half an hour to pack my snack and gather my tackle. On the way through the village 1 travelled a little faster than usual, but as my journey went on I considered things logically and slowed down. The rise would begin between eleven and twelve, I had little hope of catching anything until then. So it proved. I left the car at the farm and went on up into the mountains with my creel banging on my hip and my rod in my hand. I reached the lake at about nine o'clock. It was eleven before a fish rose, making a ring that faded out as quickly as it had happened. The moment of the week had -come. At eleven-ten I was lucky and caught my first trout.
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