It was 8.30am in late December and the rest of the house wasn't going to move for some time after the previous evening's Christmas jollities. I decided that a quiet morning's fishing at Rutland Water would be the perfect way to end the year. I took a cup of tea to my wife, Sue, and told her that I'd be back at lunchtime.

"Thank you…have a good time…see you later" she said with little enthusiasm for waking her and I was off.

The morning was dry and fresh, and the short drive to Rutland was full of the usual expectation that only an angler would understand. On entering the car park behind the large fishing lodge, the water looked stunningly beautiful and not too choppy with neat lines of boats moored up for the winter.

I got out of the car, lit a cigarette (I did then!) on went the fishing socks, wellies, trout vest and Barbour and set up my rod with a shortish 14' leader thinking that it may be a little windy.

There were a few people strolling along walking dogs, and couples walking each other, and I strolled around the fishing lodge down to the water. As I rounded the lodge, the word fresh took on a whole new meaning.

Cold? Windy?

I was hit full frontal by what could only be described as a high speed iceberg knocking me a good five feet backwards. I craned forwards again at about 45 degrees and cut my way through the icy gale down to the end of the short peninsula which extends in front of the lodge.

I turned my back to the wind briefly and my Barbour hood shot up all on its own and clamped itself around the back of my head like cling film. At the water's edge I prepared to fish.

The direction of my casting didn't take a great decision as my line was only ever going to go one way, whether I liked it or not…or so I thought.

My first attempt involved one poor back cast and the line shot forward a good 20 yards, stopped dead in mid-air, turned briefly left, then right, then flew back towards me and settled in an ugly mess on the bank. A wind with no direction…hmmm! A phenomenon all beginners will one day discover that has a very strange affect on the gentle art of casting a fly.

"Damn" I thought (or something similar). As I retrieved the mess and planned my next attempt I began to realise that the water, wind and temperature had taken on all the characteristics of 'Rounding the Horn'. The wind-chill factor must have been minus 20 and the hurricane force wind was constant – so the temperature was minus 20!

My second attempt was far more successful, catching the wind perfectly and shooting outwards like a rocket for over 25 yards, absolutely straight and almost yanking the rod out of my hand.

I decided that a slow retrieve was called for. Partly because I couldn't see any fish chasing anything moving too fast in this cold weather, partly because the action of the wind and waves was moving the fly about enough - but mainly because casting was nigh on bloody impossible as it was without having to do too much of it.

I crouched down, sat on the sloping bank, put my head under my armpit to shield from the wind and lit another cigarette wondering what the hell I was doing there.

At this point I was joined by a chap and his young son. It appeared to me that he had very foolishly bought his lad a trout fishing kit for Christmas.

I say foolishly because if he had any sense he would have bought it for him for his soddin' birthday in June when it's nice and warm, rather than get dragged out in near Arctic weather.

He had probably thought that by buying his son a rod he'd have a great excuse for going fishing a helluva lot more without considering that he'll have to take the lad every time ("you can't go without him!") or that he was going to spend most of his time getting the boy out of all sorts of tangles and trees and not have any time for himself actually fishing. Summer is the time for all this.

He spent a whole 15 minutes teaching his son to cast a fly (an absolutely pointless exercise in these conditions and in his mood) and then retreated under a large leeward tree to keep warm.

Oddly enough, while his mood deteriorated the conditions had eased a little, subsiding to a mere gale and the young lad, still very enthusiastic but now on his own, had perfected a brilliant method of 'non-casting'.

He lifted his rod high and let the wind take a good 15 yards of line and leader floating straight out into a straight line and simply lowered the rod.

Perfect, why didn't I think of that?

This I didn't need. It was bad enough just being here without some little smartarse showing me how it was done – and if he'd caught a fish…? Don't even think about it.

By now I'd been there about an hour, had achieved only about a dozen decent casts and probably as many cigarettes and decided that enough was enough. I reeled in and ambled along the peninsula passing the lad who was by now totally engrossed and completely oblivious to the weather. Here was an angler for life!

Nearing his father, who was prancing up and down the bank well away from his son, I yelled a parting comment through the wind along the lines of "good luck!" I didn't quite catch his reply in the still raging wind but I know it ended with "Off!" "I see you're off" he must have said.

On returning to the car I broke my rod into two (not literally) leaving the line and reel still connected, removed my socks, wellies, trout vest, Barbour, put on my other shoes and leapt into the car – all in about 20 seconds.

Starting the car, I put the heater on full, turned on the radio and sat there for a while until feelings returned to my hands, feet and nose – and watched an irate father in the distance trying to persuade his excited son that his first fishing lesson was over.

I agreed with him entirely and thought "never again!"

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

From the 'never to be published' book, HOOKED FOR LIFE