There was lots of action because the water was fairly fast flowing. On the other side, between the island and the far bank, the water was quite still and deep and quiet. It seemed almost impossible that just a small patch of earth could divide two such differing sides of the same river. They seemed like squabbling siblings, one all dark and sulky, the other light and tinkly.I knew any sane person fishing the fly would fish the tinkly pool because that was good fly water. But the soupy depths of the brooding bit of river kept attracting me because I could just feel that there were some sea trout sitting there, waiting The water was oxygenated enough, but restful. Like a row of nice comfy velvet chairs by the window during the Selfridges’ sale. Where would you be if you fancied a rest; in the throng of the shoppers where all the bargains were, or on one of those nice plump chairs off to the side? This is what I reckoned.

What I wanted to do was fish my fly through the quieter pool, really fast and jerky. I knew that the likelihood of the fly being seen wasn’t as great as in the clearer bit of water. But I wanted a challenge.Every now and again Dave came back to see if I was all right. And when he did so, I’d flick my line over the faster-flowing water and pretend to fish like a proper fisherman would. The moment his back was turned, I’d flick it back to the foxy little pool in the corner and put as much movement into my fly as possible – trying to make it act like a spinner! Occasionally, I could see the very tip of a dorsal fin.Even more occasionally, I’d feel a nudge nudge nudge as if the fish were playing some sort of party game with my fly (“here, look at this!”) and my heart would freeze and then pump like fury with excitement. Finally the pool went quiet because in my keenness to get a fish, I tried just a bit too hard. What a lesson fishing can teach you sometimes.We moved further up the bank to a pool which often delivered fish.

But to get to it you had to lower yourself down between two tree roots, getting into one of those tricep dip positions you do at the gym and then lower yourself into water that I couldn’t see the bottom of and that looked a bit scary. But I didn’t want to be a girl, so off I went, sliding between the tree roots, very glad that my triceps are in good condition so that I didn’t just free-fall and cause a killer-whale-sized splash. But, as always happens because I am so short, once in I realised that whilst the water might have been OK for a normal-sized person, I was out of my depth. Added to this that the river bed was all uneven and I felt very unsure of wading out.The third person in our group was more intrepid, wading out right to the best spot, but then, he had legs like a crane fly. He fished for all he was worth, as I reversed the tricep dip position to scramble out with the grace of a toddler climbing on to its first chair. But he caught nothing either: no sea trout, no brownies, not even a loose bit of branch Nothing Our hooks stayed clean.

We headed home, squelching through patches of mud and tripping over tree roots, to the comforts of whisky. All night I dreamt of deep dark pools and fish playing pass the fly, mocking me, ever so slightly.a.barbieri independent.co.uk. LEE McCONNELL, whose exploits over 400 metres this season have established her as Britain’s most dramatically rising talent, received a predictably warm reception last month upon her appearance at Glasgow’s Scotstoun Stadium, just a few miles from her home at Coatbridge. Afterwards McConnell received that other traditional confirmation of star status as she was besieged by autograph hunters.The reaction of the home crowd was not universally adulatory, however.